


The Hidden Holmes

by WhiteGloves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 85,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteGloves/pseuds/WhiteGloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With all terrorist alerted and in high anticipation of finding Mycroft Holmes who has been revealed to the world as the man behind Britain’s government, Sherlock Holmes does what he can to find his hidden brother using methods only he alone can use. But will unveiling what is in the dark be enough to save both their lives? (Seq. to The Spare Holmes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hidden

That fateful night was like a war zone with guns and bombs and lasers and triggers.

Nobody was safe—not the one with triggers and not the one with guns. Everybody was ready for any outcome be it dead or alive with tension mounting to a critical point till at last—a sacrifice.

Then a warehouse exploded, a helicopter crashed and ignited a sea of fire that illuminated the dead of the night. But it wasn't the most dangerous part—it was the hunt of the men that came back from the blazes; then a rain of bullets amidst the chaotic flames and the final gunshot.

An irretrievable lost.

Mycroft didn't like it.

Well, 'didn't like' it was an understatement.

He loathed it.

Being pulled by the arms, being shoved around by the shoulder—being manhandled so gruffly or being touched by anyone for that matter with different grisly large calloused hands that indicated too much orientation for violence— and that—that abominable sack plastered on his head like he was some sort of common prisoner.

But sadly there was nothing to be done. He was after all— a spoil of the war. A captive.

So he put up with it, albeit his own grudging with these people he easily recognized as insurgents. They had kept him securely in a truck van that night after gunning Moran down and had been at their mercy ever since his capture. There was never a day without eyes boring on him during the transport. Even cameras became his constant sentinel once they exposed him back to the ground and locked him up somewhere. The place was cold and dim, not to mention in an isolated area. Yet he could not blame them. If he also had himself as a captive he would put maximum security to guarantee a zero- escape. Who would take chances on letting such an important person slip your clutches?

Mycroft knew that they knew. He heard them when they spoke about him—they weren't trying to be discreet. He had been suspicious of these people's sudden appearance at the fire site. It was as if they were expecting him— turned out they knew exactly who he was by some twisted revelation, knew exactly what he does and for the love of god aware of what it means to have him as a worker from the British Government.

Thus the continuous interrogation. And body infliction.

What alarmed him, however, was the Russian exchange on the telephone one day. He understood every word of it having owned so many languages in his lifetime. He didn't need to hear the other side to realise that a deal was on process and that sooner or later he might be shipped towards Russia like a baggage ready for delivery.

It didn't bode well. Not for himself and certainly not for his country.

Not with everything in his brain. No countryman of his was safe.

It was on desperate occasion when he actually tried to bite his tongue off during another recurrent interview—but when they realised what he was doing they rendered him unconscious. So he woke up with a gag on his mouth, a bloody head and shoulders tied tightly on a chair.

And they left him there with only a splash of water on the face every now and then.

It was another week when he saw light. With the same conditioning of being roughly towed amidst his sleep in the middle of dawn and being subjected to blinding flash of light—Mycroft Holmes woke up and found his captors in front of him with the usual air of arrogance and tyranny.

He blinked to adjust to the lights and saw their shadow, but his head had been aching for a while now and truly in a weak disposition so he couldn't be sure how many were around. He felt someone untie his ropes and immediately massaged his swollen hands. With all the lights, he saw his pale and bloody hands.

He proceeded on removing his gag and lashed a look at his subjugators.

One of them spoke Turkish as they watched him. Mycroft made a mental note to send people there. If he survives.

Suddenly they were on the same tongue when the man whom Mycroft had been acquainted with for the last 326 hours of his stay god knows where placed tiny objects on the table.

"These are yours." His accent was from the Southern region. His dark black beard, sunken eyes and pointed nose had always reminded Mycroft of those German terrorists. "It is ours now."

The British head frowned as he looked down the table and found his microchips and sim cards there. Once upon a time he knew it was forcefully taken by one derange man who was also the sole reason he was here. He lost it amidst the fire and chaos—and wished it were so but seemed like the odds were still not on his favour.

Clenching his teeth, Mycroft sat up right and looked back at his captors with a fake blank stare.

"I don't know what you mean." Even his voice had changed—hoarse and in need of water. He felt dry.

This man in front of him—Mycroft had heard his name but refused to acknowledge it— smiled a little that turned into a devilish look as he raised his hand and waited for one of his men to hand him a mobile phone.

"We cannot open it. It has password." He said as he also placed the mobile beside the cards and stared Mycroft down. "Give it to me or—it will be painful."

Mycroft watched them placed a can of burning fire an arm's length away from him with a metal rod sticking out of it. A drop of sweat slid down the side of his head as he looked down the mobile phone and sighed.

Such desperation.

He then quietly took the mobile and selected a sim card to use. With eyes boring on him and with his own eyes looking dangerously back, he placed one of the sim on the empty mobile and turned it on. Be it confidence or complete stupidity that they allow him such communication grounds, Mycroft waited.

The LCD lit up and he waited.

Messages sprang up. One particular message captured his attention.

Sherlock?

Inconceivable. But then—he remembered this was the same number he used to reply to his brother who did not have inkling that Big Ben was actually his big brother. Mycroft used to scoff every time Sherlock sent a message thinking he was one of those horrid 'networks' of his without even the slightest idea that his brother had already compromised his team.

I need you to find my brother.

Came the first message that made him raise an eyebrow. It was the same till the third one. Clearly Sherlock was... still in search?

Then Mycroft felt his hand gripped the mobile tight after reading the last message that he couldn't resist giving the shortest reply. Sherlock needed it. And Mycroft owe it to him.

He knew by now they thought him dead and planned to let it still until he can find a way of escape.

But Sherlock's message, it seemed, needed a quick reassurance. He could tell the man was under the influence of his little hobby—otherwise he wouldn't be so emotionally bold. Little brother, really.

His mind had started to drift to the last time he saw his brother and was resolute to scold him upon return—only—he was pulled back to reality of his situation. Mycroft looked up at the men who were watching him expectantly—assuming he had just encoded what they ask and had to sigh.

It will surely take a while, this return trip of his.

The British head licked his dried bleeding lip as he stared at the chips and then in the next second— he had taken the microchips and cards from the table with one swift of his hand and together with the mobile threw it all directly to the can of fire that was next to him.

Angry holler and outburst followed and plenty of rough hands— pain after pain.

Mycroft knew what he was getting at but he knew at least he wouldn't get killed.

They needed him.

Then he was dragged again and he couldn't quite keep up with them, not with that burning pain of a metal rod searing on his back's very skin. It was more than pain. He was losing consciousness and couldn't keep even to his feet—

He even felt his feet lose the ground it was standing on—like the ground suddenly disappeared and he was falling. Literally, he was falling— into the pit of darkness.

And he was gone.

* * *

 

**THE HIDDEN HOLMES**

~ _To be continued_ ~

Thanks for reading!


	2. Unravel

_Mycroft's face and profile was all over the internet._

It even mentioned his preference to _black umbrella._

A faint smile had appeared on Sherlock's face while looking at the screen as he imagined his brother's expression upon seeing the exposure: _momentarily appalled_ at the content—especially his fitness issues, then _lots of eyebrows rising_ at the challenge, and then immediate blank expression that would signify a _revenge_ was on the way.

"You'd be very _livid_ and nobody would hear the end of this." Sherlock whispered to himself with glinting eyes, "Certainly not whoever's behind this profile breach, right Mycroft?"

Then his mind worked—Mycroft's next step of course was to contact _him_ —that was how brother Mycroft rolled. If things get personal—send little brother on the go. He never did do _leg exercise._

But the smile disappeared on Sherlock's face instantly as he pictured his brother who was out there—being auctioned to different terrorists' leaders it seemed.

"This is ugly, Sherlock." John whispered beside him. "The stakes—"

"Immense damage." Sherlock turned to Mycroft's subordinates as he clicked a page after another to see the same content, "Now the best question we can ask is ' _who'._ Who posted these online? How did they acquire it?"

"Insiders job." The doctor supplied seriously. "Or _hacked?_ "

"When do you plan to remove these sites?" Sherlock suddenly snapped to the MI6 Agent called Carruthers. "Even kids playing Warcraft can find these!"

"A team of I.T experts are on it as we speak and have taken down seventeen before you came."

"Not enough." Sherlock clicked on the touch screen and stopped when he saw a number of Mycroft's photos taken in different angle with a number of important people. " _And I thought he was always thorough_. How many sites left?"

"The number could go on for ages with still other unsearched sites." Carruthers met Sherlock's sharp gaze, "Terrorism has existed this way for many years to publicly reveal and recruit their people."

"Ah with the obvious, no wonder the world's a mess." Sherlock's lips thinned. "They put him up in all terrorist sites to call attention, but questionable traces as to where they might do any transaction. Not even a caller I.D for customers. I'd complain."

"It might go internally." Anthea shook her head, "Ransom was never their option or they would've contacted us. No, this is exclusive for radicals' networks."

"Again, with the obvious. Where is he now?" Sherlock looked at her who quickly turned to her folder.

"Northern Ireland is our spot. Right at Belfast." She confirmed. "Our agents reported there has been no more signal from Mr. Holmes' CCT except in that location for the last eight hours. We have been in contact with PSNI and they've confirmed extremists groups' suspicious actions in the past weeks near the border. The possibility suggests he's been kept there and hasn't been moved since the local authorities were already alerted. But then they are always on maximum alert since it's _Northern Ireland._ "

" _Belfast_." Sherlock repeated with eyes flickering as he understood with his mind palace. "Hardly a place to waltz in with all the internal troubles left and right. Perfect place. When can you get me there—?"

"Pardon?" Agent Carruthers blinked and frowned. "You—?"

" _Get there, yes."_ Sherlock's impatience was already getting the best of him. "Why else do you think I'm here?" he shot Anthea a look who purse her lips and raised her eyes at the MI6 Agent who frowned deeply at the detective.

"We informed you of this fact to _assure you we got everything under control_ — _not to encourage you_ to take any actions—"

"That's funny," Sherlock went on sarcastically, "I thought you guys were desperate."

Agent Carruthers glowered. "We have people to work—MI9 if you would—to secure the safety recovery of Mr. Holmes. We don't need a civilian to do professional work." Without much discretion, he turned to the female secretary. "I told you it is unnecessary to inform the relatives with this secret."

"He isn't just a relative." Anthea said pointedly to Carruthers, "He is _Sherlock Holmes."_

The Agent glanced back at the detective with a little more reverie who looked back at him.

"Still— this operation requires the most skilled and talented persons—" he began again—

"You're looking at one with both ends." Sherlock said as he raised an eyebrow, making John smile to himself. "This operation is delicately important to me as it is to your government so why don't we stop the idle chat and let me do what I need to do."

"I will not take responsibility over _what you need to do._ " Carruthers' eyes glinted after a pause, "But it is my priority to see this job done without any harm to the nation. Mr. Mycroft Holmes is essential to that. I will not have this operation fail because of a mistake in judgement."

"Consider it done." Sherlock shrugged as the doctor blinked beside him.

"Was that an approval?" he queried with a frown on his face.

"As subtle as we get." Sherlock replied as he and Carruthers continued to measure each other's gaze until the door of the room banged open and in came a man in a grey suit with short, white hair and watery blue eyes; his features made him look like an overgrown white camel with already thin lips and deep frown.

" _What is this_ —what has been going on?" he declared in a loud voice that made Sherlock and John stare at him while the other two office workers stood in their fullest height, "Carruthers!" he barked as he pointed towards the door, "is this Mycroft Holmes business still not concluded?"

"Mr. Undersecretary." Agent Carruthers gave a slight nod towards the barking old man and waited till he was a step away from each other and only a chair dividing them in between. "I'm afraid not."

"The state is _alarmed_ —do you know the Defence Secretary has been concerned ever since the information leakage of Mycroft Holmes? What have you people been doing?"

"My question exactly." Sherlock piped with a look at Carruthers who threw him a dirty look.

"The procedure is underway, Mr. Undersecretary." Agent Carruthers assured him, "and the Right Honourable has given his orders for the MI6 to conduct the operation— the media is also under control—websites after websites have already been taken down—"

"That's not what I heard—the media's taking a pointed interest at this rumoured government official taken captive by terrorists! Everyone's asking _'Who is Mycroft Holmes'_! The UN has sent a word, the EU! CIA! DOD! Even personal phone calls from different country _presidents!_ Everyone wants to know what's going on and to be updated! You know why? Because their afraid about the _secret intelligence only Mycroft Holmes know._ Do you have any idea how many nations have already raised their severe status alarm?" he shook his head as his hands found the back of the chair and pressed it. "Holmes has been very elusive but now that he is exposed I suppose that's where the Prime Minister will stop giving him special credits. He's already been compromised. And to think he's really members of these organizations and people. No wonder the lot feared him."

He stopped as he realised he was doing to himself and raised his eyes to Carruthers again.

"These ruffians have realised by now one central weakness of the British Government. We can't let them have the upper hand for too long. If only Mycroft Holmes had remained dead we won't be—"

" _Excuse me?"_

Sherlock felt an amount of electricity surge through his body and found himself stepping close to the man with expression unreadable. John immediately took Sherlock's arm to stop him as he could feel the intensity of his friend's next action.

The Undersecretary looked at Sherlock and gave a short pause.

"I know you." He said after a while, "You're the infamous brother. Assessing the damage your brother caused this country?"

"In case you hadn't noticed two weeks had already passed since my brother disappeared and your country's flag is still up and the Queen safe so don't you _think_ that much guaranteed where my brother's loyalty stands?"

"Well, we can still wait another week and see what happens. These terrorist have variety to choose from to make people talk."

Sherlock's face paled in hot fury and he took a violent step forward—

"Sherlock." John tugged on his friend's arm but there was a deep frown on his face too as he stared at the other man. The Undersecretary looked from the doctor to the detective and sighed impatiently.

"Your brother has just become the greatest threat to the nation—he's not even a politician but look at all the ruckus he's making. And they said he was the best asset this government ever had when all he did was hover his nosy nose where it didn't belong."

"Oh, he's no politician alright—he _knows better._ He wouldn't stoop so low _._ " Sherlock jerked his arms away from John's reach and for a moment the doctor thought a brawl would take place—but the detective kept his ground with eyes glinting.

"Are you insinuating—?" the Undersecretary's face turned red-

"Yes, I am. And I suppose you'd feel troubled." Sherlock went on, eyes travelling down the man's clothes, "You've been busy with parties and wines just a little while added with a woman on your arms that wasn't exactly your wife—oh no— _a man_? Even gave you a ring—zultanite?" He paused, feeling satisfied with the effect he was making as the man stared at him in mild horror. "Better not let your wife know then. She's a judge, isn't she? She'd be relentless." He smiled wickedly as the man blinked uncertainly and stood with hands on his side.

"W-what is this man doing here?" he shot the question at the MI6 agent but Sherlock's eyes flashed in answer—

"To make sure my brother's alive no thanks to you."

"Kick him out—! You're just a civilian so go home! This is about national security! Carruthers!" he turned distractedly at the agent, "Get this piece out of here and report to me—or to the Defence Secretary. End this."

With a dirty look at Sherlock, the Undersecretary turned on his heels and disappeared by the door.

"You are Mycroft Holmes' brothers through and through." Carruthers turned to the detective with knowing eyes, "But you're nicer. Your brother's classic."

"He wished him dead." Sherlock's jaw tightened with eyes towards the doorway where the statesman disappeared. "I knew all politicians were a disappointment. I didn't think they were downright revolting."

"Mr. Holmes always knows how to put them in their right places." Anthea answered as she sat down on her chair and the men looked at her way, "Mr. Undersecretary of Defence was never that verbose around your brother. I suppose it's the wine."

"Still," Agent Carruthers took his phone out and started dialling a number, "this provocation from terrorist cells will really alarm the Secretaries of the States and Presidents now that it has been revealed Mr. Holmes has liaisons to all intelligence departments—"

"Again with the _obvious—"_

"Only Mr. Holmes can control these politicians the way he does—"

"What makes you think I'll let my brother work with you guys again after all that's been said and done?"

"That's not really for you to decide, is it?" Agent Carruthers and Sherlock exchange the most inexplicable challenging looks that John couldn't quite understand. Till the Agent nodded at them and with a final glance at the secretary, walked out of the room, leaving Anthea to look at the detective and the doctor.

"We have so much to do. I'll arrange the car—"

"No need." Sherlock was already on his heels towards the doorway with John sprinting after him, "I need a different transportation from you. And intelligence as much as you can provide. At least something useful. I'll expect it after dinner."

John gave Anthea a glance and a slight nod before following his best friend out of the room.

"Care to explain?" the doctor called as they crossed the long walkway surrounding the vicinity. "About all that—Sherlock?"

"Explaining is a waste of time, John— _talking wastes time_." The detective didn't bother looking back as he took his phone and started typing. "We don't have time. Belfast is approximately 322 miles. 9 hours and 34 minutes far by land travel and 0.57 by air. We know what to choose. With a little _cooperation_ from reliable networks breaking in shouldn't be a problem too; it's still part of U.K after all I've got it all mapped out—"

"Mapped out— _how_? _You_ better stop talking to yourself now I have other things I need to know before we jump in the wagon to save your brother—"

"' _We_ '?"

"Not open for discussion, _we are_ _both going_." When there was no response, the doctor pressed on, "But how did you know?"

"You know better than to ask that—"

"No— don't give me that crap and stop the gloating look." He doubled his speed to catch up with the detective till they were shoulder to shoulder. "How did you know your brother's alive? I know you, Sherlock— you knew these guys were about to tell you _something_ and you giving that vibe meant you knew beforehand. Was it the body? Was it something—?"

"Big Ben."

"Big— _what_?"

Sherlock suddenly rounded to his friend and shot his phone under John's face. The doctor frowned as he read the message with that eminent initial _M_ and within seconds was frowning even heavier as he tried to understand—

"Hey, wait—? _What's that mean?_ "

"Obviously Big Ben's not who I think he is. But not here. _They're watching us."_ Sherlock noted with some hint of importance as he surveyed the city cameras around. John glanced up too.

"What do you think they'll find?" he murmured without much mind for an answer.

"My brother." Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he raised his hand and called for a cab. John watched the detective before giving another look back at the Parliament where they left Mycroft's secretary, Agent Carruthers and that overbearing Mr. Undersecretary John wished he had knocked out for just being an overall _unhelpful_ scum.

Thus found themselves in a cab heading straight to 221B Baker Street. With much tried patience, the doctor called Mary's phone and waited until they reached the old flat. He could read Sherlock Holmes even with that blank look on his face the doctor had gone so used to that he could read every etch it made.

_Mind palace_ was on the work.

* * *

When their room door was locked, John watched his friend walked around the room restively. Mrs. Hudson had lit the fireside as she usually does when it was time to warm the place, sweet old land lady. And now as the fire once again danced between them did John squared his jaw and began.

"What's this Big Ben about?" he shot the question in one go as he stood his ground with a heavy frown on his face. "Are you telling me Mycroft's _the_ _Big Ben? And he texted you?_ No wait—Mycroft texted you and they picked up the signal! How is that even possible?"

"It's Mycroft. _That made it possible._ " Sherlock dived to the newspapers on his desk and started throwing it around, in search of something. "He got in my networks and _I didn't even notice—_ no wait, I did. I just wasn't able to lure him out. He must be so happy telling me those information behind his desk— _stupid brother."_

"But how? Didn't you meet that old man in the Big Ben before?"

"Definitely _not_ my brother but paid to be his physical appearance. I checked this morning."

From his memory, the detective remembered going up early that day and tracking the old man hiding inside the Big Ben. There was no question when he saw the old man already preparing his morning meal when he climbed up the clock tower. It was the same man he paid to be part of his _networks_ long before.

_"You're not Big Ben." Sherlock started as the man looked up at him and blinked innocently._

_"I've been mistaken for worst." The old man shrugged._

John followed Sherlock with his eyes till the detective turned to him.

"It's not that I didn't notice—the old man was _inside_ Big Ben—too near the House of Parliaments to _not notice anything important._ That's the sole reason why I recruited him—"

" _Right—_ enough with the self defence." John shook his head, "Mycroft's just too _good._ Which reminds me—what exactly does Mycroft do? I get it—he has a very top notch job in the government with access to the Queen's family and even passes to the highest military base— _but what exactly is he?"_

"That's exactly who he is."

"But that _cabinet secretary_ was right—Mycroft's not even a politician so why—?"

"Mycroft is not—and will not accept any honour or title. You read his profile—like everybody else has done." Sherlock answered monotonously without even turning, "Mycroft's job is not as simple as one politician thinks—they _never do think_. It is inadequate and very boring life—a politician. Mycroft is a very complex man, John. You wouldn't understand."

"Well, try me." John stepped toward the detective, "We can talk about him, right? All these years and I didn't even realise I'm arguing with a U.N private secretary or CIA or SIS executive—or MOD—"

"I told you he was partly CIA—"

_"SIS Executive, Sherlock?_ "

"He's Mycroft—what better position do you think he'll fall in? A folder passer?"

"British Secret Service I understand—but council of the _European Union?!"_ his voice nearly cracked.

"Didn't think you'd be interested."

John sighed. "I'm really not. I just can't believe your brother _actually_ juggles all these and _still_ have the time to hang out at Diogenes Club or talk to me or drop by just to bully you."

"Ah, now... that opens possibility, doesn't it? The _Diogenes Club?_ Did you believe for a second it was an _innocent club_? Remember Mycroft's one of the founding members? I had my suspicions. Shouldn't be surprise—this is Mycroft." The detective dropped himself on his chair with eyes still wide, "He requires a different set of entertainment to exercise his mental powers and found government manipulation absolutely a playground. No—John, Mycroft's position is simply as is— _he is the British government."_

"And look where he is." The doctor sat on his chair with eyes still at the detective. " _The most wanted man of all the world's terrorists."_

"Indispensible." Sherlock closed his fists as they rested on either side of his chair.

He fell silent as if again— _getting swallowed by his mind._

"They are doing something about the media, right?" the doctor frowned as he saw his friend think away. "If it's already been seen by half the terrorists in the world—"

"Across the globe." The detective's eyes travelled to the flames. "This government people and personnel won't function as tidy and neat out of public without my brother."

"I can see that." John watched Sherlock seriously, before shaking his head. " _So what are we doing about it?_ Don't tell me you really plan to sit this one out like what that _cabinet secretary said?_ Because if you do, Sherlock I'll murder you for lying."

"Murder me." Sherlock's eyes twinkled as the next second they heard a beep of a car. Both looking outside the window, the two then saw a black sedan parked outside 221B.

And then Sherlock nearly shot himself out away from the window and to his room. Mrs. Hudson came knocking by the doorway.

"John there's—"

"Yes," the doctor nodded as he took his mobile and dialled his wife's number. "Our ride?"

"No—the telly, dear. Something about Sherlock's brother?"

John turned the television on and found a male reporter with a frowning face, heavily leaning on the anchor's table saying—

_"Plenty of reports have been made by concerned citizens who have seen a certain man's profile posted on the internet sites—even reaching instagram and twitter—a profile of that one important British official named Mycroft Holmes claimed to be taken by terrorists._ (A photo of Mycroft was online) _It is still unclear who the man is and his position in the government though there were reports saying he was working with CIA and even EU. The government representatives neither confirmed nor denied such existence but assured the public that the forces of National Defence are doing their job in ensuring the safety of its citizens and advised the country not to be alarmed by such false alarm..."_

_"_ I thought Mycroft's with the police?" Mrs. Hudson blinked at John, "Or somebody that shadowy?"

John smiled and then Mary came in from the doorway and the couple had a little moment of catching up when Sherlock's door opened. The detective came out wearing his dark coat and that ever apathetic expression that by now John had decided to be untrue.

_"The question remains—who is Mycroft Holmes?"_ ended the reporter on the telly.

"What do we do with the media, Sherlock?" John asked the moment the detective stopped in front of the mirror near the fireside, "You know they won't stop—they always dig and find something. They even twist it but the facts can't be as twisted as it is already. Even international news is reporting this—if this keeps up—"

" _Not my problem."_ Sherlock said as he turned to face the doctor with a completely passive look, "Mycroft will have to deal with that when he comes back—I've got other work to do." He smiled at Mary who nodded her head and handed him a folder which she had been carrying.

"Background from Northern Ireland inaccessible even to the MI6." She said as Sherlock approached her. "That's all I could find and there's plenty. And very extreme. There have been a number of reports that terrorists from ISIL has been hunting down around the area and a possible window to enter England. I suppose your brother knows that, he just doesn't tell."

"Ah, well. He's my brother of full mystery." He thanked her.

"Be careful." She turned to her husband pointedly, then to Sherlock.

"You're going to Northern Ireland?" Mrs. Hudson blinked at the trio who all looked back at her with secret glances till the detective walked out towards the door and found himself face to face with D.I Lestrade who came swinging by with large steps of feet from the stairs—

"Hey—what's going on? I've heard the most ridiculous news about your brother—I thought _he's not supposed to go public?"_

"Galahad! So happy to see you alive!" Sherlock greeted as he tapped the inspector on the shoulder and walked pass him after, "See you later!"

"Wha—what's that about?" Greg blinked as John tapped him on the shoulder too and strode after the detective down the stairs, "Hey—where are you guys going?" he shouted after them.

"You had better stay." John heard Mary say as he climbed down the stairs. "They're in a hurry."

" _I'm in a hurry._ His brother's name is all stampeding tabloid magazines and then a warning issued from the higher up we're in severe status alert! That's not supposed to happen— his exposure I mean— _where are they going anyway?_ "

Mary pressed a smile.

" _To save England."_

0.57 was on the work.

* * *

**Unravel**

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

**_Thanks for reading! :)_ **

**_Lots and Lots of thanks!_ **


	3. Infiltrate

_Twelve hours... eight... pain..._

_Blood infection... dead body... spare..._

_Circadian... pain... protocols... Hidden location..._

_War._

One too many to think about but never quite enough for his mind.

Mycroft Holmes had had his eyes open for some time now and still saw _nothing._ He was no better than a blind person trying to feel, in heightened effect, his surrounding enveloped in darkness. He was thrown there eight hours ago and kept with no light to guide, curved on a corner with arms about his knees, head bent on his arms and bare foot against the rough, cold stone floor. His wrists were bound together by a rope—something he was unable to notice until the spasm of pain from his recent back injury got him to notice after a length of time.

So they had tied him less he choked himself? What sensible people.

Then again that's what they do: untie, assail, tie again and chuck in a corner. Mycroft wondered sometimes if they were _cannibal_ the way they maltreat other people's body. The thought didn't make him any sicker than he already was.

And funny how that one word kept nudging at the corner of his brain ever since his consciousness returned: _pain._ But it was one thing to wish he'd feel no pain; it was another to wish he was already a _dead man._

If it wasn't for that single _text message_ he wouldn't really be regretting wishing he was dead now.

Weeks ago he would have gladly _forfeit_ that life without much of a thought—but then came the text and here he was with a silver lining and change of plans. Now he really won't be trying to chop his tongue off the second time save they force him. _Hope was on the way._

Still it was dark and silent.

Everything had been quiet for awhile since the little fiasco with his storage devices he vowed never to use again but Mycroft didn't dislike it. Silence and isolation had always been his best company; it being said his seclusion allowed him to focus and see the bigger picture of what had transpired so far. Despite having so many injuries he preferred to focus on the most important wanderings of the mind than his trivial condition. Albeit having a high temperature at that.

Nothing ever made him feel better than going to the only place that heals him. In his case _his mind palace:_ his only sanctuary to his current desolated reality. It was his _kingdom._ Thus, he simply started to _think_ and turned facts and tables from beginning to end to see _hows_ and _whats_ and _ends._

What he found offended him. And yes, there shall be _war._

He fell asleep on the next hour with mind disgruntled from his findings and woke up with a start when he heard sounds of feet from above. He had suspected he was underground. That would explain the absence of any windows and his difficulty in breathing for the insufficient amount of air.

Did he notice it was dark?

Mycroft was just about to raise his head from his arms when Sherlock's voice rang in his ears—

"There you are!"

Mycroft shot his face up and saw his brother appear out of nowhere with a jack knife at hand. The detective knelt in front of him, took one look at his tied arms and was about to cut it when Mycroft pulled it back with a frown.

"What are you still doing?" the younger Holmes snapped in his usual impatient demeanour, "give me that and let's get this done! Do you know how many I've killed already?"

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock's hands and saw them stained with blood. It made him sigh and look up at his little brother again in exasperation.

" _What nonsense_." He breathed.

And the image of Sherlock Holmes disappeared from his sight.

Mycroft heaved a deep sigh and shook his head at the petty tricks of his own brain. Obviously there was a serious imbalance in his mind palace. He had been seeing Sherlock's shadow recently after that text message he read.

Was that sentiment?

 _Or maybe he was sicker than he thought..._ It had been twelve hours since he last drank water.

He favoured the latter on the dot.

A loud grinding sound of stone alerted him, and then light came washing down from above in a form of a square directed to the floor. The portal to his whereabouts seemed to open as pairs of feet appeared climbing down the iron ladders attached to the wall. That was probably why Mycroft thought he had fallen and actually hit the ground before crumpling on his corner. They really did push him and he really did _fall._ Painfully. A muscle of his was still aching at the moment.

He waited till the two men who descended from Babylon came down carrying a gigantic flashlight and blinded him with one good point in his direction. With eyebrows furrowed, Mycroft shook his head and felt hands grasped his elbows with a violent tug. The next thing he knew, a chair was also brought down and as per _practice,_ he was plummeted on it once again and facing adversaries he had grown tired of seeing—one bald and one tall and dark— Mycroft barely opened his eyes.

Were they going to say what he expected them to say?

"How's the body? Feelin' like deadweight now, don't it?" said the bald man quiet menacingly in his shoddy voice, his dirty military-like-jacket, striped scarf and dark sharp beard a dead giveaway of his personality, much more the two guns hooked around his belt.

Mycroft pressed his eyes close patiently with eyebrows still high and up and chose to be silent.

And their next question would be...?

"Do you feel like talking now? Or do we have to make it another _rough_ day _?"_ the other dark skinned man, taller than the other with a thick bundle of black scarf around his neck and shabby turban demanded. "We outta kill you after what you did, we really should."

Mycroft opened his eyes to the two blundering idiots— _his expression reflecting his thoughts—_ he was accustomed to these men who were like his alarm every time interrogation hour was to start. Still, he opted not to talk. Talking his way out of idiots never did work for him.

Of course, the next thing they would say would be—

"You're sum' tough nut o' crack so let's start the cracking—" the bald man was never commended for his choice of words and intelligibility. Mycroft sighed in defeat.

"If I am to be given a penny for every correct guess I make..." he began in a whisper, his voice cracking huskily at the lack of liquid, his eyes glinting as he finally looked up, "I'd be richer than both your vocabularies put together."

Heavy frowns came down on the men's already very heavy expression.

"What he say?" the taller person inquired in confusion.

"He's at it with his weird speeches again." His partner grunted as they both stood in front of Mycroft side by side, "He's supposed to be all tha' smart an' intelligent."

 _"Touché."_ Mycroft smiled with a raised eyebrow.

A blow on his cheek with the back of a hand was another anticipation Mycroft had seen. He coughed painfully and felt his eyes swim yet it was nothing to the vexation of being manhandled that got the older Holmes glaring back at his assailant.

"Righ', we don'need to make it all painful, do we?" said the bald man as he smirked at Mycroft's freshly bleeding lip while the other man pointed the flash light over their captive's face. "If you don't gimme what I need, you'll start losin' fingernails an' teeth an' eyeballs here. Even _head._ So gimme what we ask an' we get this over with?"

"I've heard that before."

"You never listen."

A fist on another cheek made Mycroft nearly curse his own stubbornness as the headache he had been complaining to himself alarm him that he had had enough damage for the day.

Still...

"You never were specific, you mongrels..." he gritted his teeth as he eyed the bald man warily, "whatever it is you ask—you wanted key codes for several high facility prisons... even British air force coordinates... that's really a tall to give... yet you fail to make me understand one specific detail..."

"Yeah? And what's that?" the darker man frowned sceptically.

Mycroft's eyes flashed daggers. "Why would I help you?"

His neck was grabbed by the bald man—chocked till the British head nearly felt his consciousness fading with whisper of sound coming out of his dried lips—

"Let's just kill em?"

"Bradkom wants his answers now." The taller man muttered with a tap on his comrade, "we best keep him awake and hang him around something?"

The grasp loosened and Mycroft choked on his breast painfully.

"Yeah, we do that. So go get the bloody boilin water first. This guy need som refreshenin'!" The bald man ordered sharply to his ally after snatching the flash light and bringing it around the walls towards Mycroft's already beaten face. The darker guy automatically jumped to the iron ladder while Mycroft held his chin up to let air enter his lungs after such a violent attempt of murder.

Even his eyes were burning. The pain was too numbing _._ And what of next...?

"You still won't talk?" the bald man was eyeing him with quite a challenging look that never bode well, "If bit of skin stabbing can't make you talk then let's try skin peeling."

"In fairness to your sickening mind," The British Head raised his shoulders to try and straightened himself but failed as his head swam in pain, "... you can get nothing... you might as well pour acid on me..."

"Acid sounds good?" Bald man smirked again, "We got plenty. I saw some around the corner in the artillery."

"Yes, ex military camp... near the river side and isolated... plenty of murals outside I imagine?"

"Lot's of."

"Are you a loyalist? Or republican? Or do you just bomb anyone on the way?"

"I'm the one askin' questions here. Oy, wait— _how did you know that_?"

A beat next and Mycroft opened his eyes to look at his captor who was glaring at him suspiciously. His mind had cleared in those hours in the dark and with the confirmed data on, his mind palace came to life—

"Two weeks ago with a three hour drive... there was even a boat for another three hours or my imaginings must have been bad, I was half conscious... Glasgow was my last location, see?" The bald man frowned as the British Head continued, "There are few places you can get with a truck from Glasgow to a nearby port... and the only place that rings a bell with rebels roaming freely and in such number... it's quite obvious." Mycroft stopped as his eyes twinkled finally. "The murals are just one of its attractions. I know exactly where I am."

An aggressive clutch on his collar made the older Holmes grit his teeth as he saw the bald man's eyes clouded with defiance and unease.

"Who you been talkin' to? How did you know that?"

Mycroft stared blankly at the man for a second and had to remind himself this was one dull creature.

"I'm afraid one with your calibre won't understand even if you try— to be polite. Simpletons like you." He smiled before he could stop himself and received another blow on the cheek exactly as somebody opened the closed lids of their cell and the tall man with the scarf returned climbing down the iron ladder—

"Where's the bloody boiling water! I want to see this man scream like a nutter!" the bald man nearly chomped his ally in anger who stood frozen for a moment at the sudden change of mood and then shook his head vigorously.

"Lukewarm." He said gruffly while his companion turned his heels towards the British head who had sat immobile on his chair with head bowed. A lot of his hair was pulled up violently—causing Mycroft to grit his teeth in pain—

"If you think bein' so smart can save you for long, you're wrong! Gettin' all the time like you're a walking clock— I'll kill you right now if you don't gimme the damn codes and coordinates, you smart-alecky!"

 _"Circadian rhythm..._ if term be applied..." Mycroft tried to pry his pained eyes open to stare at his aggressor who blinked at him in confusion. "That's a term for knowing time with accumulated experience of body, you _imbecile._ "

An angry snarl came out of the bald man's mouth and things happened so quickly after that as Mycroft was struck with a foot around his middle that sent him crashing down the ground with the chair breaking into pieces— he was kicked by the rebel belligerently—but things didn't quite stop at that.

As Mycroft crumpled on the floor with his fingers clawing down the stone ground in pain, his chest screaming for air he thought feet came bustling around him and thought chairs and tables would come crashing on his back next. He hadn't the time to recover from the recent attack when he felt the man above him grab his shoulders to make him sit up— a groan escaped his lips.

But then a single arm suddenly supported his shoulders gently. The next thing Mycroft Holmes knew were his blurry, red eyesight focusing and the taller man in the black scarf peering at him closely at the minute.

"Mycroft?" the man's voice whispered and the earnestness of his concern shook the older Holmes who raised his eyes in disbelief at the man holding him with such firmness. There was that voice again— why can't his brother just—?

" _Mycroft!"_ snappish, impatient and absolutely from the owner of the voice got Mycroft to _believe._

And he stared in disbelief as his eyes discerned that familiar figure hidden behind the guise—there was no mistaking it as Mycroft reached a hand and grab a handful of the man's arm and gripped it— found it solid on his touch—

"Oh god..." he whispered as reality sank in him with eyes not leaving his younger brother's who was looking at him closely. " _Sherlock_?"

The detective gave a blank stare as he helped his brother to stand.

"As we live and breathe, brother." He started too casually with their eyes were locked at each other. "My, how the tables have turned with you pretending to be dead and now _I'm_ the one _'wading in.'_ I still don't get how you could watch me get beaten to pieces in Siberia. It's not as fun as it looks."

"Jesus, it _is_ you." Mycroft sighed as Sherlock supported his weight, " _you talk too much."_

"Now, now let's get you out. People are waiting for us. You don't want to destroy such an intricate plan, now do you?"

" _'People_ '?"

"Concerned citizens looking out for the _Troubles._ John's particularly interested on how to get us out." He travelled his eyes on the floor and there Mycroft saw the bald man lying unconscious on his stomach with a bleeding head. The flashlight was left on the floor too that gave them enough light to see each other.

The older Holmes breathed painfully as Sherlock kept a steady hold and gaze about the square doorway above with a frown on his face.

"John's here?" Mycroft noted as they started moving towards the exit.

"Pretty enthusiastic." Sherlock answered as he took hold of the iron bar and let Mycroft reach it. "Really liked pulling his rank over the others. He does like bossing people around. Can you climb?"

"Arms are working fine." He lied—his arms were like _lead_ that wanted nothing to do with moving, same with his legs. Sherlock saw through it and guided him halfway till the older Holmes was able to reach the above floor and struggled to carry his weight up—

"You lost weight." Sherlock pointed out grimly as he slid pass his brother and pulled him up on his feet.

"Finally." The British head breathed out again as he closed his eyes tight to adjust to the brightness of the room. He stood lost for a moment, before noticing Sherlock offering him a clean cloth to wipe his bleeding face.

"Is calling you atrophied an insult?" the detective went on—

"Shut up, now, Sherlock—look at the cameras—"

"Already disabled it. Same as I disabled him." He nodded his head at the sleeping man by the floor whose clothes were taken by the detective. The dark scarf perfectly fitted Sherlock. "It's quite tricky finding this trap door if I didn't notice how strangely _empty_ it was and he came in looking with a purpose—"

"Not really a good time, Sherlock—" Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his surrounding and turned to his brother who was looking at him quite expectantly. "What?"

" _At least_ commend me I found you in less than three hours since my touched down here."

"We can talk about that at length later."

Sherlock paused. "You were expecting me?"

"I _made_ the expectation, I texted you." Mycroft gritted his teeth at the kicking pain of his body. Sherlock smiled a little and gazed at him for awhile, before turning back towards the doorway with face turning severe. Peering outside, the detective frowned as he saw his brother standing there, lost in agony.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had stuck with me in that forest."

"This would have happened _eventually_."

Sherlock shot his brother a look who wasn't even paying attention anymore. The excitement of finding his younger brother got a hold of adrenaline inside him but it was slowly fading what with such a beaten body. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and found his brother staring at him quietly.

Things were turning too quickly. But then again, Sherlock was involved.

"So then, what's the plan?"

"You are the plan. Get you out of here since you're not the combat type. Not with that scrawny body."

There was another glare from the detective's eyes that Mycroft chose to ignore.

"So they sent you—the _vanguard?_ "

"Not vanguard— _Cavalier,_ brother. Ireland soil—do you know where you are—?"

"Of course I know." The older Holmes tried to stand in his full height with his eyebrows contracting as he clutched his stomach and felt a searing pain again. Looking up, he found the detective intently watching him. "What's waiting for us out there?"

"Twenty two men armed, thirteen cameras and ten more people outside the nearest exit I evaded using stealth mode. It's headed towards the factory where our ride's waiting."

"Stealth mode?" he looked at the tall dark man's body on the floor—

" _Infiltration—_ this is an infiltration of course it means stealth mode. We are in a fortified camp with bombs and guns again ready to be set off so we have to be thorough."

"You explaining being thorough with me..." Mycroft shook his head as his voice faded away "So how do you go on carrying an attraction like me?"

Sherlock smirked, "Well, if you wear these clothes you'll be invisible."

He raised the green military jacket of the bald man lying unconscious beneath them.

Mycroft's lips thinned but he didn't say anything.

 _Stealth mode_ it is.

* * *

For the men scouting around, they could only see two men in almost similar fashioned clothes of green and scarves and carrying heavy weapons at that while walking towards the pile of drums nearby the exit gates. The sun had gone hours ago and the bleak greyish sky was casting shadows here and there.

"I thought stealth mode..." the older Holmes whispered as they walked side by side in the open.

" _Wading out,_ big brother." Sherlock muttered back with a glance behind him.

Mycroft had difficulty in carrying his body without leaning on his younger brother for support. Still, he refused Sherlock's help the moment he noticed eyes were on them.

"Just... act it out... naturally..." the older Holmes muttered with a deep sigh, his eyebrows furrowed at how focused he was on what he was doing but Sherlock could actually see perspiration sliding down from his forehead.

"Medical help should be on standby en route." The detective said as he kept an eye on both his older brother and the men carrying on with their duties. The cat was still in the bag, it seemed. Sherlock did secure the trap door without any traces of mishap. "You're doing good. You'll be fine."

"Encouragement from you, Sherlock... am I to die?"

"You had a full _three weeks_ playing it."

"To be accurate—you people _assumed_ it."

" _Your secretary was incessant about it! Giving those clues—"_

"Ah, now." A glint of amusement finally appeared on the older Holmes' face. "Wasn't it fun?"

Sherlock glowered at his brother before pacing up his speed and picking up a stone on the ground, and then another, making the older Holmes stopped walking and stared at the suddenly turning-half lunatic brother.

"Don't just stand there," Sherlock told him from the corner of his lips, "Try pointing in that direction! The men watching us should see we have a purpose here."

"Ridiculous." But Mycroft pointed on the direction all the same till they were inches from the gates. "Don't you think it odd we're escaping easily like this? Haven't they found those bodies by now with the number of guards they usually have for me?"

"I hid them. The bald guy actually took a bashing for kicking you." Sherlock gazed behind them too, "The only odds we should be concerned about is getting you out of here at the moment." He snatched his older brother's arms to support him and with sudden vigour the Holmes brothers dragged their feet far along the number of warehouses. The location was filled with it, like it was some sort of factory business with only the number of same sized, same coloured empty building.

Sherlock suddenly pulled Mycroft on a halt behind a red wall and slumped down the floor—

"Sherlock—? Don't tell me you plan for us to camp out here when they roam around in that number—"

"That should begin it." Sherlock muttered as he took his phone and clicked the enter button.

Mycroft was just about to open his lips when he heard loud roars of three military helicopters—the _UK Apache_ to be precise— came to life and the next thing—somebody was on the megaphone— _Agent Carruthers' voice was loud and clear._

_"The perimeter of this place is surrounded. We got three 30mm cannon that can wipe out your entire facility and dozens of snipers carrying L115A3 ready to engage. You are all under arrest for—"_

Shouts and machine guns greeted his words next—an all out war broke out as the UK air force retaliated—

Sherlock half dragged Mycroft by the arm again as they both ducked towards a clear area away from all the violence and undaunted rebels. They had moved a few more paces before they heard a whooping missile crash the entire vicinity—making Sherlock look back and watch the effect, impressed.

"So much for stealth mode...?" Mycroft stared at the destruction in matter of seconds. "Good lord... you're breaking out a war." More gun firing and dozens of men came out of their hiding places ready with arms—

"They asked for it." Sherlock said without much a thought, his eyes glinting. "And Carruthers does know how to make a scene, your right hand man."

"He's grown on me." Mycroft clutched on his chest as he watched the raging fire. "I see you're all desperate... these are... the ' _people_ ' you speak of?"

"Not entirely." Sherlock turned to his brother and glanced at him from head to toe, "just a bit further—" they had to move again as sound of guns came roaring once more, "John's there with the medical team—we had to bring the doctor in."

"Yes... I think he's the man for the job." Mycroft coughed as they half run with the gun exchange getting louder and louder, "There are really few people I'd trust with this right now, Sherlock, believe me."

"I know." Sherlock suddenly turned and helped his brother and the two crossed the remaining part of the road till they reached a white van waiting for them around the corner. Once Mycroft's eyes fell on the people standing by he stopped in alert.

"What's the matter? They're with us?" Sherlock told him as he pulled his brother towards the vehicle where two unknown men wearing the usual stab vests of officers stood. One of them opened the sliding door but Mycroft refused to step in.

The detective stared at his brother.

"Mycroft—"

"Where are your badges?" the older Holmes suddenly demanded to the men while Sherlock frowned.

The two police glanced at one another and produced their badges as told.

"It's alright," Sherlock said as his eyes travelled from the men to his brother, "they've been with us ever since the planning. They're PSNI."

Mycroft Holmes blinked his blurry eyes and sighed.

"Yes... of course. Where's John?"

They entered the vehicle and closed the door just as the van's engine roared to life.

"At the facility. I think that's him calling." The detective then shot a hand up his brother's forehead before taking his phone out with eyes on his brother. "No wonder you're so edgy. You're burning up. We need to get you some shots." He smirked as he put the phone on his ear. "I know how you hate those... Hello, John? I've got brother Mycroft but he's got the flue."

"I had tetanus toxoid jabbed on me after that incident with the warehouse, you remember?" The older Holmes whispered as he turned his eyes towards the front to the man driving the vehicle. "Blood infection shouldn't be a problem..."

The PSNI member turned a look at him on the rear view mirror.

And Mycroft didn't like what he saw behind those dark eyes. Or maybe he was truly sick even clouding his judgment. But then it was too late to doubt his mind now. The older Holmes blinked his hazy eyes.

"Sherlock..." he licked his lips and glanced at his younger brother who was exchanging words with John, apparently. He could actually hear the doctor's standard angry voice on the other end. "...you said John's at the facility... is he with the PSNI too?"

"Yeah, why?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and paused, waiting for a reply.

Mycroft turned his eyes back at the PSNI agent.

He was no longer looking back.

_"Nothing."_

* * *

**Infiltrate**

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

**_Thanks for reading! :)_ **

 


	4. Intercept

_Three hours ago [Police Federation for Northern Ireland office]_

Sherlock sat in one corner in front of a laptop while John stood behind him facing the other way towards three high ranking officials—Agent Carruthers, the MI6 in-charge, Commissioner Gray Bradstreet, in command of the of the Police Service of Northern Ireland and Assistant Commissioner Tom Roylott, his subordinate to field operation strategy. Both of them were wearing their force uniforms with badges while Carruthers wore nothing of identification except his dark suit and tie.

Together the three of them made a scene.

"An important government worker in the hands of dissidents? Here? _How_?" The Commissioner demanded more than stated as he leaned both hands on his desk with eyes on Carruthers who remained impassive on the spot.

"Co-cooperation of terrorists, or a simple insider's job, we are yet to know." Carruthers nodded slightly. "I don't need to repeat this but this is a highly classified op and it is _necessary_ that we find him _alive."_

"Don't push your luck, it doesn't happen." The assistant commissioner furrowed his brows as did John who listened closely, "The militants we handle in these parts do not pose cheap tricks. If you want to know our history, go around the barracks and see for yourself. Our murals tell much death in the hands of our own civilians. Finding your guy _alive_... a chance of one's arm."

"We'll cut many arms if we have to." The dark suited MI6 leader assured him. "It's nothing to the loss this country will suffer if this man is not retrieved."

"And what kind of military force can you give us?" the Commissioner was all raising his voice again, "British Special Forces and Special Unit army have come and go, what makes _your squad_ different this time?"

"They answer to me in this one." Carruthers didn't even blink, "We can take care of the actual attack. I just need affirmation that no report on news whatsoever be done after we finish our business here. It's a standard procedure."

"What are you going to do?" the brisk Commissioner went on with a smirk, "Carry the British Army tanks and raid down Belfast road? You _want an open war for one man?_ "

Carruthers pressed his lips closed that made the two other officers stare at him.

"You really mean—?" Roylott shook his head in disbelief while his superior raised eyebrows.

"You haven't even found him yet—you can't go on bringing any attacks on any civilian site you—"

"We're aware of that. That is why we also need ground support in these parts."

"Then what?"

"Leave it to us."

"Don't give me that." Commissioner Bradstreet slumped on his chair grumpily with heavy eyes on the agent, "The last time I heard that two British soldiers were killed a step away from their base by an improvised explosive and one good guy lost a leg. These Republicans mean harm and if anyone of the civilians gets caught in the crossfire I swear—and mind you— _we are still in the midst of talking peace and treaties!"_

"Peace and treaties will be done once this man is recovered." John suddenly put in before he could stop himself and a beat next he found all three men staring at him. "I mean... that's what he does... in his _own way._ _Keep the country safe... spy on people?"_

"This Holmes...? Mycroft Holmes?" repeated Bradstreet as he shook his heavy head and leaned on his chair. "I don't really recall of such a man."

_"Lucky for you."_

Sherlock's voice joining the conversation felt like an icebreaker too and for the first time their eyes fell on the dark curly haired detective who had been so absurd in front of the laptop he was using but seemingly able to follow the conversation all the same.

"Who he?" the Commissioner raised an eyebrow. "And why's he using the Federal Office's security laptop— _that's password protected—how in the blazes did you turn it on? Who the hell are you?"_

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock Holmes." Agent Carruthers offered that received different reactions—

" _Who?"_ Bradstreet was all confused while his assistant's eyes fell on the consulting detective.

"I know him. The consulting detective with the deerstalker hat."

John froze while Sherlock's lips twitched as he turned towards them.

" _I'll get you later._ On a more pressing matter— _I found it_."

"What?" John quickly leaned over Sherlock's shoulder who turned back on the laptop. "What 'it'? How?"

All he could see were four black cmd commands with very quick letters appearing per seconds. The detective's hands were in synch with the keyboard—

"Pirated wireless signal. Tapped the one active over the rest of the terrorist site."

" _You know how to hack wireless signals?"_

"Nope. _Mary does_. She hacked their IRCP."

John kept his mouth shut as the detective went on—

"She got frequent usernames TArchy, Hezbollah, Xbox, Gondola acquired on the hacked terrorist sites... Seems like they're all interested in this IRC network... it's a Black Market. They're talking about a clandestine captive... that should be Mycroft and look—this Weaver seems pretty hyped. They're auctioning him already."

"So it's a ransom." The Commissioner muttered severely.

"Not for us." The detective typed more with eyes not leaving the screen. "This is _it_ : A7 GD. Tamhnaigh Naom. Give me a map."

The next moment, Sherlock was pointing at the map provided to them by the Assistant Commissioner.

"This area." He said briskly and without a word he straightened from the table he had been leaning on.

"Saintfield?" said Bradstreet who had been reluctant to jump on the bandwagon with the way he throws look at Agent Carruthers, John and the detective with apparent animosity since they arrived. "How can you be so sure? I don't want to rain missiles down the wrong way—"

"No, but I want your PSNI force to be there waiting in case things go south for us in this place at Carryduff."

"What—?"

Sherlock stared at them dumbfounded—"Aren't you listening? Your terrorist cell is at _Carryduff and their planning to send off the luggage at Rowallane Garden,_ 'Tamhnaigh Naom'—Irish word meaning the field of saints. You know that _just think!_ It's the meeting place for the transaction of the winning bidder two hours from now. You need to be there to intercept it if _I_ fail at Carryduff."

Silence filled the air at the sudden developments when—

"But why Carryduff?" John had decided to ask the burning question on everyone's mind which made his friend look at him as if he was seeing something inhuman.

" _The tracer they gave us on Mycroft's phone, John?_ And it's only a few miles away to Saintfield from a straight old Belfast road, what else gives?"

"Oh."

"It's only a small town." Roylotte crossed his arms with a curious look at Sherlock. "Very remote."

"What else defines 'suspicious'?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the Assistant Commissioner. "And didn't your men report strange activities within Belfast that got you grounding your men at the borders?"

"We were tipped off—but not something unexpected as carrying a man off from London just so he could be traded to other terrorists group."

"It's an ingenious plan." Sherlock acknowledge with dark eyes, "and highly _coincidental._ But I'll get my hands on that once I get my hand on this. Now give me what you know about Carryduff."

The Commissioner turned to his assistant and gave him a nod, before giving a long pause as he threw another furrowed look at Sherlock who had been watching him with an impatient look.

"Just let me get this straight— _these terrorists are interested with your guy because he works in some secret intelligence of the British government?_ All of them are interested?"

"You obviously have dislike for internet." The detective muttered. "Now is there any place in Carryduff that has strong walls, most probably abandoned and empty and likely to be breeding ground for your dissidents?"

The Commissioner and his Assistant exchange meaningful looks that made Sherlock smile wide.

"I want three parties prepared—if this place is fortified and _it is,_ I want you to lead the medical team and wait there." He eyed the army doctor, "Carruthers will handle the point attack." He turned to the agent, "You wait for my signal. Drop nothing till I get my brother and if he's not in any condition to escape in his own limbs, I want _them_ unable to pursue."

"I'll handle it." Agent Carruthers nodded.

"Give them hell." Sherlock noted when Roylott returned carrying a blue print of the building.

"If you want a rendezvous point we can make use of the unused military camp's medical facility found in Mealough road, that's a few miles out. It's temporary closed but it can be used. If there'd be any casualties it's the best spot we can have. We'll send people to locate you at the back of this building here."

He pointed on the map while Sherlock memorized the places.

"Camouflage it is." He muttered to himself, "the best way to assess the situation is to be there."

"We'll take Saintfield then." Commissioner Bradstreet raised his eyebrows, "If your attempt to intercept doesn't work."

"I'll stay with the medical group there if there'd be any emergency so keep in touch." John nodded as he caught the detective's eyes, "But what would _you do?_ "

Sherlock's eyes glinted. " _What I do best."_

* * *

_Three hours later after the infiltration..._

Sherlock checked on his mobile phone as he stood outside the base of the joint military camp at the outskirts of town, his eyes narrowed at the unresponsive gadget. Pursing his lips, the detective impatiently thrust it inside his dark coat's pocket and travelled his eyes at his surroundings.

Trees. Plenty of trees and military personnel scouting the grounds and weapons. It was a military camp established by British Special Unit to monitor potential threats to the nation.

Sherlock raised eyebrows on both corner of the camp with eyes on everybody, before turning inside the camp's white medical facility tent.

There he found his older brother with half his body covered with bandages that seeped with blood seated at the edge of the bed rack and on the phone with—

 _"No, Prime Minister—"_ Mycroft already sounded aggravated by the minute, " _resigning your post won't give solution to the result of the referendum! No— that's only backfiring the effect of the motion!"_

Silence came as the older Holmes' expression varied from a frown, frustration and finally raising thick fingers covered in bandaged to his forehead and massaging it. Sherlock stood by the doorway watching his brother with his weight on one leg and arms crossed. He shook his head meaningfully when he caught his brother's eyes and his meaning was _received:_ it hasn't been an hour since they arrived and the older Holmes was supposed to be in the middle of a patch up instead of _that._

Mycroft ignored him.

"But that would demolish the economy and entire exchange—there will be an immense damaged—performance will _deteriorate..._ "he went on, "No, I never _exaggerate_ , you're aware of it that's why you want to resign— _your exasperation on the matter is clear..._ To be frank Prime Minister you are leaving in a bad taste and you know it will come to a bad end..."

Sherlock smirked when his older brother rolled his eyes.

"You cannot _blame_ the First Minister when Scotland voted remain... _no,_ even if you are replaced by anyone from the Conservative of the House of Commons the backfire will still have a full effect on the country. That's why—you know the Parliament has to ratify—it _matters_ that the House of Lords and Commons vote against it— _what?"_

Mycroft's eyes glinted dark. Sherlock had seen that look before and knew things were getting out of hand.

"Typical... what else is left?" Mycroft gave a sigh and shook his head as he closed his eyes again. Long minutes passed before he spoke again. "That's not a solution, Prime Minister, stop being so sentimental about this. People are reacting now as they _should be..._ The expat communities should worry, indeed, and to think we burned because of our own people... yes, I'll be there. _I know_."

Hanging up, he dropped his hand down to his leg quite heavily.

" _Brexit_?" Sherlock asked knowingly that made his brother grimaced. "Did _he_ even ask how you're doing?"

Mycroft raised his furrowed eyes at his brother.

"Why would he when his own existence is about to collapse? He's no better than I."

"Fair point." Sherlock nodded with a smirk and stepped into the room towards his brother, "And just because you left your office for three weeks that the government's crumbling."

"That too, but it's the mass people's decision." The older Holmes watched his brother stop in front of him, "I warned them against not properly informing the people of the true agenda behind the E.U when it was obvious the citizens were infuriated by it. The BSE did a poor job. Letting people think the membership was only black and white was the mistake. Now it made all of us look like xenophobes—"

_"You are—"_

_"It's not personal. I'd still vote in._ With proper propaganda this could have been easily solved... and as it turns out—a _backlash_." He sighed again. "And so it changes."

"It can't be that bad."

"Oh, it _will be bad._ " Mycroft's assurance was always dead on. "They have no idea."

"But you're not planning to solve this in that condition, are you?" the scepticism in the detective's voice was heard as he noted his brother's bruises on the face already purple and dark, blood clotting that looked painful under his eyes and the gash across the bridge of his nose.

"Turns out I'm needed." The British head shrugged offhandedly, "They won't see the real effect without me laying it all out in front of them step by step. With tides changing it's important I give my counsel. I already called my secretary for a jet plane to the European Council with the Prime Minister once in London."

Sherlock's glare was unexpected. "Did you hit your head and forgot what just happened to you?"

"This takes precedence." Mycroft blinked and narrowed his hazy eyes. "I have to go."

_"Nope."_

"I beg your pardon?"

"Absurd as you are, brother— _don't be a complete masochist_." Sherlock's face was blank but his words came out like blades, "I won't bore you to stay in bed— _I'm not our mother—_ but for godsake look in the mirror and judge for yourself if you're even fit to show yourself in public much less to any leader's council."

The older Holmes smiled. "They won't care how I look, as long as my mind is fit for tackling decisions."

"And that's where you really have to _over think_ who your friends are—"

" _Friends?"_ the British head nearly chuckled, "that's barely a description—"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Right—you _don't like friends—"_

 _"It's a preference_."

"—no, you don't like people in general—"

" _We're talking about this because?"_ The British government head raised an eyebrow that received a glare back from the detective again—

"You work for a government that doesn't give a _damn_ whether you live or die—"

Mycroft's jaw slowly dropped in confusion. "I'm sorry— _where is this coming from?"_

Sherlock stopped in midstream as he pressed his lips closed in annoyance, the blaze in his eyes ever ignited.

"You reject other people, Mycroft. You _don't have friends_. Someone from your own government even said it was better you died and your own Prime Minister seemed ignorant that you just came back to life after escaping a terrorist crisis situation— _exactly what kind of people do you surround yourself with?_ "

The British Government head looked truly surprised at the outburst of the younger Holmes that he stared at him for long seconds as if seeing him for the first time.

"Well..." he began when Sherlock refused to say another word, "those kinds of people who _won't bother_ , I think? Because it's all politics and power on where I am, Sherlock. You never complained before. I thought you knew?"

"Oh, I knew it but it's different when I really see it."

"See what? For goodness sake you think our government can last if everyone who's ever been in charge of it is all so tender hearted and concerned over little trifles of losing people? We deal with hostage crisis every single month and _not pay ransoms,_ we deal with terrorist cells and prevent each attempt— _you think we have time to worry about our losses?"_

Sherlock Holmes returned the icy gaze his older brother was giving him.

"That's the kind of mentality that will get you killed—"

" _No_ , that's the kind of mentality that saves billions of people, little brother. No— _don't argue, you know you never win."_ The narrowed eyes the older Holmes gave him made Sherlock itch to retort back—only Mycroft beat him to it as he continued in his usual self demeanour— "Besides, you know how much trouble having so called 'power' can be— and in contrast to what you think I do—I'm merely the middle man as only I can be— _I give power where power is due._ "

"Yeah, and that got you where exactly? People hungry for power snatching you up for _leverage?_ I haven't forgotten what Magnussen was prepared to do to get that _power_ —"

" _Oh,_ _real power-seekers make Magnussen seem like a child's play."_ The British head's eyes glinted dark as he placed the phone on the white linen and looked up at the detective again. " _The real enemies are those in position to govern._ Without me on the loop corruption entails. Or Britain falling out, like it just did. That's why I need to go."

"Carruthers will be your escort. He's itching to send you home."

" _Our' escort_. You not planning to stay here are you?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at that, making his brother narrow his eyes.

"Sherlock—"

"This might be repeated again." His tone was cold and firm with a determined look in his eyes, "The only way to stop _them_ is to bury them too deep they won't be able to comeback."

"You really do have a _death wish_ , don't you? _This involves international terrorist—"_

" _Who actually_ _found it necessary to take you!_ " Sherlock voice had gotten stronger the same as Mycroft's face paled; Sherlock could already see John's reproachful look towards him if the doctor was there— _really haranguing the patient_ —

The older Holmes' only reply was to press his lips close to calm himself and said out, "It won't happen again."

"We have to make sure it won't." the detective gave his brother a long look, "I didn't waste time stopping Moriarty's gang. What makes you think I'll stop on this one?"

"What's gotten into you?" Mycroft was frowning so hard that made his bruises looked worse.

Sherlock looked away in discomfort. "I don't know. Probably has something to do with finding my supposed dead brother miles away in hands of suicidal people."

"You're being ridiculous." His voice had gotten softer, "No, Sherlock your involvement with terrorist started and ended just now. You won't be pursuing anyone anymore. _Leave it to me."_

"I don't mind the trouble."

_"Sherlock!"_

"And why are you stopping me? Usually you're the one hell bent to give me cases like this."

"Not this. You're taking it personally."

" _I take it personally."_

Another beat of exchanging stares left the Holmes brothers in silence with Mycroft studying his brother's unexpected behaviour while Sherlock stared adamantly back. One glance and the detective knew exactly what was playing on his brother's mind and didn't include textbook emotions—

 _"You know you can be thick sometimes, you know, Mycroft?"_ he breathed finally.

That took a whole new turn as the older Holmes straightened on his bed with eyes taking the challenge with vigour unexpected from a man whose body was dressed in bandaged.

" _Did you just call me stupid?"_ his icy monotonous voice was music to Sherlock's ear who gritted his teeth.

"I think I did."

He turned away from Mycroft who stared at him, appalled while the detective oscillated on the spot with glaring eyes. He needed to calm down, he knew that but the feeling of losing something very important has just sunk in him so deeply that he was seeing things in a different way.

And that the people responsible still out there and with his brother's profile exposed— _probably increasing._

" _Completely missed the point."_ He muttered to himself as he decided to stand on one corner with eyes still glowering.

"Stop it, you're making my head hurt." Mycroft reached a hand on his injured shoulder and glared at his brother too and the two spent a few minutes in silence. Sherlock was adamant and Mycroft knew that so in the end it was the older Holmes who had to sigh it out and gave in eventually. "You couldn't imagine the pain—"

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother attentively—

"— of staying with those _people_ who were too _raucous,_ and _demanding,_ and _dirty_ and absolutely... _beastly._ "

"Mm, we got rid of them nicely— _they're all pulverized—"_

"That too. Do you know how many calls I had to make to cover up that attack?"

"Isn't that what you do anyway?" the detective raised another eyebrow as he looked at his brother's injuries, "Clean things up even when your patches are half way done? Where's your nurse, your bandages need redressing—"

"It's fine." Mycroft looked disgruntled down at his body and started peeling off the one around his abdomen, "Enough fussing as it is."

"Oh, you've no idea of the _fuss_ the world made about you brother." The younger Holmes smiled to himself this time as he was yet tell Mycroft of the public revelation of his identity. "I suggest you clean it up before you go flying anywhere with the media's nose in the air—"

"If you meant my profile on the internet," Mycroft cut him with a glare that caught the detective disappointed, "then I just said it. _Enough fussing as it is._ I had enough phone calls to make and enough people telling me about them. _Damn_."

"Mm. You're taking it better than I imagined?"

"Well, I just had to remind myself that people these days have a memory span of a _goldfish_ so what's the harm? Let it pass."

"Your facebook account's been hacked—" started the detective with a smirk.

"I _don't do facebook._ "

"Twitter?"

"Under a different name."

"Ahh... _your tumblr?"_

"I despise that." Another sharp glare from the British head—

"Then we both agree on _instagram_?"

" _Bless you_." Mycroft gritted his teeth as the last strand of his bandaged got stuck with his fresh injury. Sherlock crossed the distance between them and in seconds was helping his brother clean the bleeding part. "It's alright, I got it—"

The younger Holmes made a clicking sound with his tongue and helped all the same as he took the dirty bandages away. It was an ugly sight that greeted Sherlock what with half open wounds and bruises that looked painful to touch. He glared at Mycroft again who blinked back at him.

"Very convincing, isn't it? Perhaps I'll apply for a sick leave." the older Holmes offered but Sherlock was determined to keep his jaw tight as he placed the bloody bandages on the nearby table. He then rounded back and took the clean ones while the older Holmes applied the cleansing agent. The wrapping came up nicely with the detective's ever scrupulous hands—he had never been so gentle.

Mycroft nodded at him. "Hand me those clean clothes too, won't you?"

Sherlock rounded on the bed and grabbed the provided clothes by the hanger; upon taking it, he turned back to hand it to the owner when Mycroft's exposed back made him stop dead on his tracks. It was a horrible sight— what with that long gash of dark wound that crossed from his left waist up to the man's right shoulder, like a mark of a metal rod that burned the skin and flesh—

Sherlock stared at the wound blankly and hardly heard his brother call his name.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's eyes snapped and in came the revolting emotion—which he kept well as he went near his brother again and handed him his clothes. He reviewed the bombing of the UK choppers at the rebels and knew it felt right. _Justified._

"Don't wear it." He said in a voice so low he barely heard himself as he stood an inch beside his brother with his back leaning on the bed and arms crossed. "Too tight."

"What? And go naked?" Mycroft turned a look at him as if he had lost his mind. "Really, Sherlock, what's gotten in to you?"

"You need rest, brother. _They all can wait."_

The British Head threw a side look at his younger brother who didn't look back. With eyebrows rising up to heaven, he straightened on his seat again despite the obvious pain and took one good look at his brother.

"I see." He said after a moment with eyebrows up. "So it all comes down to this: _you're concerned about me."_

"Just." Sherlock gritted his teeth uncomfortably and replaced it with a heavy frown as he glanced at his brother too, "I thought it should be fairly obvious by now."

"Oh?" Mycroft's words tumbled out uncertainly, then he frowned as he injected on, "well, it's because you had a _funny way of saying it."_

" _Yeah,_ same way you had a funny way of _showing it_ with your spies and sedans and even _Big Ben."_

It was Mycroft's turn to smirk.

"I got you that time."

Sherlock compressed his lips in annoyance but didn't say anything as he remembered his brother's recovery stage. It all ended up with silence falling between them.

"Thank you for that." Mycroft barely whispered without meeting his brother's eyes. " _For coming_."

"That's what we do." Sherlock answered quietly and another round of silence fell between the two.

Until the older Holmes cleared his throat, being unable to bear such uncomfortable silence. "So... John still not in contact?"

"No." The detective took out his phone again and saw nothing. "It's been an hour since we missed him when they were called to support Carruthers' group. I heard it was bad."

"Never really off duty, is he?" Mycroft took his phone from the bed and stared at it too. "Carruthers hasn't been in contact too."

"Told him to give them hell." Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft looked thoughtful for awhile. "John can handle himself."

"Course he can."

"And... these people who knows this extraction op...?" Mycroft went on with a sudden change of note in his voice as he travelled his eyes towards the doorway, "You sure you can trust them?"

"They're fine. I checked them." Sherlock looked towards where his brother was looking.

Mycroft nodded, his usual expression returning. "We don't want this 'Out of the frying-pan-into-the-fire' thing happening when I am needed elsewhere, Sherlock."

"Let's not always assume the worst in people, brother." The detective smirked.

"You're awfully supportive of them, why?"

"Oh, I don't know... probably because they helped me save my brother."

Mycroft smiled dryly. "Don't make it a habit, Sherlock. _Sentiments_. It clouds judgment."

"Right back at you." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother just as they heard an upcoming vehicle enter the vicinity from the outside. "Habit of close call on your life. _Very unlike you._ "

"It's a conspiracy—"

"You always think there's conspiracy—"

"Well, let's both hope I'm wrong because..." they heard heavy footsteps outside and upon looking up, saw five military personnel all looking at the two of them with hostility. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I don't normally hate it when I'm _correct."_

Sherlock frowned as he stood in his full height beside his older brother.

But then amongst the five military personnel emerged Assistant Commissionaire Roylott whose clothes were dirty with blood looking pale yet firm and in control. Both the Holmes brothers greeted him with astonished expression as he said in a plain, heavy voice—

_"Agent Carruthers' dead."_

* * *

**Intercept**

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

_Disclaimer: Any names, characters, businesses, places, events are used in a fictitious manner ;)_

_**Thanks for reading! :)** _


	5. Trade

" _Jesus..."_

Mycroft whispered feeling his grip on his phone loosening as the news blew his remaining strength and for a while he was lost in silence. Sherlock stared hard and long at the bringer of the news who continued—

"I'm sorry about Agent Carruthers. He was gunned down on ground when their chopper crashed. He seemed like a good man. His team was able to hold off a large number of militants but we received reports that there were those who managed to escape. We cannot stay here for long; we have to go to Belfast."

Sherlock's eyes flickered for a moment but then understanding sunk in him in the next beat—

 _"Where's John?"_ he breathed with a step towards the Assistant Commissioner who looked back at him with a frown.

"He was supposed to wait here—"

" _No—_ they were called to support Carruthers—"

"Nobody arrived there." Roylott's brows were all too furrowed. "The med team was supposed to remain here while Carruthers handle the attack with the British troupe he assembled—?"

"Obviously someone called them there for support! He isn't here!" Sherlock demanded with a violent wave of his hand while the back of his mind nagged him with another question— _what are you doing—?_

"Then where is he—?" Roylott began—

_"Isn't it obvious?"_

Mycroft's grave tone made the men look in his direction.

The British Head was on his feet despite his white ashen face and bruised appearance. The gauze wrapped on his body made matters worse as blood seeped out again with the fresh wounds opening at the sudden movement. He looked too gaunt to be even moving that Sherlock was tempted to snarl impatiently at their situation as he understood his older brother's notion—

_A conspiracy._

"Sit down, Mycroft, _for god's sake."_ Sherlock threw him a dirty look before turning towards the PSNI Assistant Commissioner, all the same taking out his phone, "We need to find their med team. Alert your force."

"That's true, I have to contact the Commissioner—" Roylott took out his phone—the same time as a loud explosion from somewhere far made them all stand alert and astonished. The next second, blaring sirens met their ears and the British soldiers ran outside shouting to others, leaving the three men gaping at each other.

"What the hell's that?" Sherlock glanced around with displeasure in his face—to hear bombings now of all time. It was the last thing they needed.

There was a short pause –

"That... was the communication towers..." Roylott muttered as he slipped his phone inside his pocket with an urgent look at the detective who checked his phone and saw the signal go off. "Communication's down. It's an ambush."

The sirens continued blaring on as Sherlock immediately assessed the sudden development from the death of the much essential Agent Carruthers, the disappearance of John Watson and now the attack on the towers...

 _"Genius!"_ Sherlock whispered with gritted teeth as he gripped his useless mobile and nearly threw it away, _"To pull such a stunt—they clearly want us stuck out here with no means of communication or back up... but how did they know we're here...?"_ he glared up at the Assistant Commissioner. _"_ We have to find a way to communicate for back up! Find out what's going on! Who's in charge here?"

"The staff commander's with the Commissioner at Saintfield to provide support in catching the Russians— there's only the army doctor and me overseeing this part, this was supposed to be a temporary shelter, not a battle ground—"

"Don't they have those walky-talkies?" again, the nagging question at the back of his mind was persistent.

"The signal will still be disrupted—"

Sherlock stared at the PSNI in charge with disbelief, his mind palace buzzing. How could things go wrong in ten seconds? Without Carruthers their command with the operation was spoiled and contact with his men over Carryduff was impossible with the towers down. Even if the British troupe returned it would be too late if their attackers overtook them now. And there's John missing all the action and the fact they were _stuck_ in the middle of nowhere.

 _What are you doing here?_ The voice nagged in his mind.

The detective looked down the floor blankly.

"What are you doing here?" he suddenly whispered as he slowly looked up at the man with unblinking, suspicious eyes.

"I was ordered to provide escort." Roylott went on with another frown, "And we cannot stay here. My orders were to take you to Belfast as soon as I am able. We can let a few soldiers here to escort us too—"

"You're not supposed to be here—"

"What?"

" _At Saintfield—you're supposed to be there."_

"I told you I was ordered to escort you—what the hell do you mean to say?" the Assistant Commissioner demanded this time as he and the detective exchanged heated looks while Mycroft watched them carefully.

"The slightest change in plans sets me off." The detective muttered with a twitch of his mouth. "Especially the most unusual and coincidental ones." He flashed another look at the man.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"What do you think I'm saying?"

A short pause came with the siren enveloping their ears as Roylott glared at the detective. "Look, _changes happen._ If you have problems with that then you can stay here all night doubting and wait for your pursuers to come _or_ you trust me _._ Now what do you want to do?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly and then glanced at his brother who didn't move a muscle. His eyes were narrowed; he actually seemed sleepy despite the siren. The detective studied him for a moment before turning back to the Assistant Commissioner.

"I need to get my brother out of here but I also need a place with signal to contact my friend—"

"Then we'll do that or you can work with the PSNI or the soldiers to fix the communication lines. I'll take your brother back—" Roylott glanced behind Sherlock with a nod.

_"No."_

With a sharp glance at the PSNI Assistant Commissioner, Sherlock straightened himself with a sudden rising alarm _. "I stay with my brother."_

Roylott's frown was impressive. _"Fine._ I'll set the perimeters while the remaining soldiers barricade this place and we'll make a convoy to the nearest town. If we have pursuers... we'll meet them." He started for the threshold.

"And one more thing..." Sherlock called out as the man turned back with a look. "Tell them to turn off the alarm, everybody knows we're under attack with the little number we have."

The Assistant Commissioner grunted and he was out of the tent to the blaring sirens.

The detective waited till the man was out of ear shot and checked his phone again for any signal and found none. Grumpily, he turned to his brother just as he was trying to put on his new clean buttoned shirt but with difficulty and plenty of wincing that made Sherlock raise an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"You won't want me going out of there with nothing on me, right?" Mycroft asked pointedly as he raised his right arm still attached to his IV drop in the air and sighed. "I wish they stop that blasted sound."

"They will." Sherlock looked down at the transparent string attached to his brother's wrist with blood already on the rise, "and quit moving. We want liquids in, not out."

"Don't tell me there's no need to hurry when things are blowing around, Sherlock." The older Holmes reprimanded him in that state that made the detective want to smile but shook his head.

"About Carruthers..."

Mycroft smiled blankly that didn't reach his eyes. "I was supposed to tell him... well... you know, things you were unable to tell people before their demise..."

"I know exactly what that means." Sherlock pressed his lips closed, remembering those dark nights of thinking his brother's dead. Mycroft watched him for a moment and that was when the two noticed the absence of the siren. The vicinity had gone silent. Until the British head cleared his throat.

"Well, going back to topic... what or _who_ are we up against?"

"I'd like to ask you the same." Sherlock narrowed his eyes knowing full well his older brother had listened to everything Roylott had said. He also _knew_ by far that his brother already has the same logical assumptions and more accurate and sound decision. " _What do you make of him?"_

"Him we cannot trust because he _doesn't trust us._ " Mycroft said forthrightly as he met Sherlock's dark eyes, "He doesn't even know who I am. _Or pretend to._ Anyway even if we put faith in him what will happen _will happen_ with the pattern already on the move. I see it. _You do too._ We need to be cautious, and we are still in the dark about John's whereabouts... god knows where he is."

"Balance of probability, Mycroft..."

"I didn't want to alarm you, but it would seem so." The British head nodded gravely at his younger brother. "Caught in the crossfire... and taken. You know exactly how this type of drama could end, brother."

The two exchange meaningful looks.

The Holmes brothers walked out of the tent after a couple of minutes with Sherlock holding his brother's shoulder firmly while Mycroft took hold of his younger brother's arm. The way his legs were adamant not to stop shaking and unable to take his own weight told Sherlock his brother was still in no shape—no shape for anything at all save a good old bed and a box of dextrose. His skinny arms and wobbly fingers caused consternation from the detective who was careful not to add weight on the body hiding ugly injuries beneath the thick bundle of bandage and clothing.

And he told himself again that Mycroft was all facades when in reality it shouldn't have been possible to endure such pain. Why was Mycroft so resolute to conceal it from him?

Then again, this was _Mycroft._

His idiot brother.

Assistant Commissioner Roylott met them a few meters away from the tent and led them at the passengers' seat of an armed black van with two military vehicles in front and at the back. The base had been silent for a minute and no sign of enemies were sited. Thus the company began its way.

* * *

Mycroft had his eyes close for the first thirty minute ride and could careless of the bumps on the road and the noisy wheels of two military jeeps escorting them. His body was too heavy and warm that it was all he could do not to succumb to his injuries. He couldn't afford to show his weak side, not now when his younger brother needed him to be the firm and reliable brother in the middle of another crisis.

And so Mycroft remained silent and gripped both his hands to stop the shaking.

Not PTSD on the go now, that would be _absurd_ for him. It was mere _fatigue._

He took a deep breath and felt his heavy body sear in pain. The additional stress on his heavy heart at the news of a good right hand man's demise and the possibility of losing another was not helping his short _rest._

Because he had a pretty clear idea of what happened to _John Watson._

He just wished yet again that he was wrong.

 _But alas_... he took a deep sigh. John was vital and one he _must not lose,_ whatever it takes. Because he'll miss the man's grumpy and sincerely honest nature. A valuable asset, really. Not to mention, Sherlock's caretaker in times of need. And Sherlock would tear Northern Ireland down before he loses his best friend.

_Obviously, he would. Just like how he did Belfast..._

The ride was long and too _still._ For some reason, Mycroft opened his eyes in the dark, only in time to see the man called 'Roylott' who was sitting with them at the backseat pull his gun and Sherlock sitting rigidly on his chair. Mycroft quickly snapped in attention.

"What are you—?" he began in alarm, his voice back to its croakiness but Sherlock's firm grip on his right arm rendered him silent. Looking at his brother, he saw Sherlock shook his head and pressed a finger on his lips. With eyes directed at Roylott, the Holmes brothers watched as the Assistant Commissioner pointed the gun—not at them—but at the back of the driver.

" _Stop the van now or I'll shoot and you'll never have to clean it, I swear."_

Mycroft blinked his blurred eyes and turned towards the rear view mirror. There he saw the same PSNI man he thought suspicious from the beginning glaring at the mirror— _he did not stop the vehicle._

"I said stop the damn thing!" Roylott wrestled the neck of the constable and the car swayed a little, making Mycroft grip his arm on the vacant seat while Sherlock held his arm tightly on the other till the car made a full stop in the middle of nowhere.

The next thing the PSNI in charge had bolted out of the van, pulled the driver out and had him pressed on the car's window with arms pulled back. Roylott confiscated his gun and angrily condemned the supposed PSNI constable.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with knowing eyes.

"He's the guy?"

"He's the guy." Sherlock nodded with a narrowed look outside. "He deliberately let the convoy get ahead first or with an accomplice and manoeuvred the car before we realised it... the car's heading back to Carryduff without our notice... Roylott saw it. He's going to eat him alive." The detective smirked.

Mycroft sat straight and pursed his lips at a sudden pain with broken beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Instead of showing schadenfreude there, Sherlock... just hand me some water?"

Sherlock reached out and gave him bottled water while he leaned his back gently on the car seat. Pain suddenly struck him that a sharp gasp escape his lips, making his younger brother turn to him.

"Mycroft."

"It's fine." The older Holmes muttered with hands on the bottle but struggle as he might, he couldn't turn the bottle cap lose. Impatiently, he tried again only to be drained out and had to eventually give it back to his brother. Sherlock opened it for him and watched his older brother drink in small amounts.

That washed the itchiness of his throat.

"That's better..." he muttered as he shut his eyes close.

"You look worse."

"Take away my water supply and I'm nothing save a dry egg plant."

"Still humorous. You'll get better."

"How's the situation...?"

"Could still get worse."

"What do you mean 'could still get worse'; it's already worst as..." Mycroft's voice trailed off as his eyes was met with a blinding light from the wind shield and the next thing the Holmes brothers saw another car glided down in front of them. It was then followed by three more vans and exited a good dozen of men wearing scarves around their necks and shoulders and loaded with high calibre guns.

The Holmes brothers sat in silence as they saw all guns pointed in their direction.

" _Good lord..."_ Mycroft whispered as all his senses were awoken again, especially when out of the many new enemies emerged John Watson. Sherlock's eyes sparked and he immediately went out of the van.

Silence was in the cold air with only the headlights of the cars illuminating everything and the shadows of the men in silhouettes towering all other figures.

Sherlock Holmes eyed John Watson who got no worse than a bleeding lip, bounded wrists and black eye. Assistant Commissioner Roylott pointed his gun to the many enemies, but then couldn't decide who to point at so decided to press it to the PSNI constable beside him right as Sherlock rounded on the car's front with eyes transfixed on his friend.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John started with a shake of his head as then he was prodded forward by one of the militants with one good shove using a gun.

Sherlock travelled his eyes to the group with mental notes working furiously—the number of men, what they were wearing, how many were armed to the last boot and John's limp that suggests a broken rib.

A car door opened from the band and out came the _villain._

Sherlock always knew who it was; they were always the ones to reveal themselves last. But at least he'll finally have a glimpse of one of the _many men_ who seemed interested in one thing.

The man walked in the shadow, he was a tall figure and like everyone else with a neat military cut. His clothes were dark and there was an air of prominence in him as he stood in front of the glaring head lights with his big head, his face was long and hard with a pointed nose and narrowed eyes. The headlight from the van stressed his gaunt features with hollowed cheeks and a cut lip on the corner. His left hand was over the other, playing with his ring on his right middle finger.

Sherlock read words _uncanny_ , _merciless_ and determined with that simple gesture.

An enemy who _actually thinks._

That was not a plus side for the detective at these warring times.

 _"Sherlock Holmes."_ The man said with a dark glint on his eyes, showing his white teeth.

"I should say," the detective stood in his full height and held his ground, "you have the advantage of me."

"No need to be modest, you are well known to these sides of... _unlawful._ I've been warned you'd be here snooping." His heavy English accent told Sherlock English wasn't his native tongue and that he had been abroad more than enough to acquire fluency. _International terrorists._

"If you know me then..." He said after awhile, noticing John's unblinking eyes and agitation, "You also know that dealing with me can be quite troublesome."

The unknown man smiled again. "We heard what you did in Siberia and Germany and Slovakia... it shows promise for someone so... single minded. I can tell they've underestimated you."

"They didn't. They knew exactly what was coming but too late to notice it's already happening."

"Just like now?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"It would seem so... with you taking one of mine."

The man glanced slightly at John's direction.

"You Londoners are pretty violent for people who are domesticated." He raised his thumb to his cut lip that made Sherlock and John exchange looks of satisfaction. "I could have killed him if I didn't think he was useful."

"So what's stopping you now?" Sherlock's eyes flickered in mock wonder, while John's eyes widened a little, "I mean you could kill us with this number with you." He looked around the dozen men.

"I could," the man nodded briefly, "but I also know your British convoy is en route. They should notice your absence by now and must be gearing to search. Not to mention, _knowing the suicidal tendencies_ of the man hidden in that car if anything happens to his younger brother. _I really need him alive, see."_

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he saw the man looked pass him into the tinted car window where Mycroft was observing everything. So it comes down to the obvious meaning of such an _ambush._ The unsurprising trade.

"Sherlock—" John started with an attempt to move forward only to be grabbed back.

The detective looked at his friend and then glared back at the unknown man with his options already on the table. But then behind him, Roylott suddenly grabbed the PSNI spy by the collar and pushed him forward.

"If you want a trade, take this one." He said gruffly, "we don't need rats screwing my force—"

The militant leader didn't even bat an eye as he grabbed one of his men's weapons and pulled the trigger—straight to the man's head with the sound ringing in everyone's ear. Roylott was quick to point his gun upward and received a dozen so back while Sherlock stared at the dead spy and up to the perpetrator. There was not a trace of any emotion on his masked face.

"I have no use for rats. I want _him."_

A door shut closed sharply and Sherlock looked back to see his brother outside and on his feet, clinging on the van's door for support. There was a grave look on his expression as he slowly stepped into the light too; concealing all his pain all to himself while Sherlock watched him with hard eyes.

"Mycroft..."

"We talked about this." The older Holmes stood his ground a foot away from his younger brother and looked at his adversary. John shot Sherlock an incredulous look but no reaction whatsoever came from the detective except keep his thin lips shut but with blaring eyes at his brother's enemy— _now also his personal enemy—_ in front of him.

And in his mind's eye, Sherlock remembered his conversation with his brother before they left the tent.

_"What do you mean it's obvious, you always think it's obvious—what do you mean you're going to give yourself up? You don't make sense—"the detective demanded to his brother inside the medical tent half an hour ago._

_"I always make sense! You're the one not thinking straight." Mycroft followed Sherlock with his eyes. "Just follow the plan and if we're lucky we'll wrapped this up before the Prime Minister gets jittery because I don't phone him."_

_"You think I'd let you go back to these terrorists just like that?"_

_"You have to." Mycroft noted quietly. "John's life is on the line. You don't do that—we don't do this then we don't find him. We need to play on the enemy's trap. All of this is a trap if it isn't so obvious already."_

_Sherlock gritted his teeth as he looked away agitatedly._

_"There must be another way to find John." He began furiously—_

_"Enlighten me." Mycroft stared at him with his cold calculating look. "Trapped here, no signal, no British troupe commander, John gone when he's supposed to stay here and my best MI6 agent dead—we are in a tight corner and somebody's pulling the strings. I need to lure him out. In these times where even the PSNI force seem unaware that they have spies in their number... that we do not know who to trust and that we are on our own...it's obvious we are up against someone quite a handful."_

_"And you want to lure him out?"_

_"To cut to the chase, yes. You said it yourself—you want to end things here that it doesn't happen again. When would be the better way to do it than now when things are in motion and they think it's in their favour?"_

_"It's a whole load in their favour!"_

_"Not quite. They're against us." He flashed a smile at his younger brother. "It's only a matter of time before we can reverse it against them so don't get cold feet now, brother. That's really unlike you."_

_"That's not my point—we want lure them, I get that, but you really think you can managed with that body of yours? You're not even fit for walking!"_

_"That's something I need to work on." The older Holmes agreed with a bitter look at his body. "Alas, I need get my act together."_

_"I hate it when you do this, Mycroft." Sherlock gave his brother a long look which received a glare back._

_"Enough of that, you already know I'm telling the truth. Now, remind me, Sherlock what's the last advantage we have against the enemies?"_

_Sherlock hesitated angrily as his brother smiled wryly._

_"Me." He finished briskly, "If we want to find him and I'm sure we will, we just have to ride along this tactic of 'finding signals'. They know that would be our next step since they are the one who trapped us here. The fact that they have not come barging in here in all conceit could only mean they are still wary of the British army. But we do not have time to sort out who to trust and not, you know the more we waste time the more John's life is in danger. With this development all we need to do is to wait until something turns the tide... then we'll act accordingly. And do remember, our main goal is to find John Watson."_

_"And then what will happen to you?"_

_"I'll take care of it—"_

_"The last time you 'took care of it' you died!" Sherlock was bristling; it made Mycroft stare at him._

_"Well... I'm rather resilient if you have not yet noticed."_

_"Mycroft—"_

_"Sherlock, have some confidence, will you? I wouldn't be putting myself through this entire ordeal again if I don't trust you'd find me persistently, brother."_

_That caught Sherlock surprised._

_Mycroft smirked in wonder with eyebrows contorted testily. "You had always been my plan B. That's one thing constant in these deceitful times."_

* * *

**Trade**

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

_A/N: Bombings here and there in the real world ;( I pray!_

_**Thanks for reading! :)** _


	6. Code

_The_ _Umbrella man_ , they called him.

The soubriquet given by the low government workers who chances to see this mysterious gentleman who pops up every now and then by the Parliament, States Offices, or Embassies— or even at Buckingham Palace of the British Government without making himself known. He was the same as every other English gentleman you see in the government _—_ plaid elegant suit, dark shoes with high end manner, neck tie in check, the atmosphere of somebody with _no_ _nonsense attitude_ and of course, his _umbrella_. He was not the kind of man that would stick to memory if you are not constant inside the government as he only comes and goes without a single acknowledgement of those he sees. He was like a tube in the railway—always has his steps on the same path pushing forth and stopping only at his destination, in his case and it was _always_ — directly towards the highest offices of the British Government.

Yet nobody knows his trade; he wasn’t a politician or any famous personality, definitely not anyone’s secretary or agent.

But he was always called whenever there were high matters of state involved. When things were dire and decisions need to be made or laws to be passed— _his name is uttered by the highest authority._

_Mr. Holmes._

Nobody who is nobody need not know him; they just know him as the Umbrella man, the gentleman in the British Government but only just.

For them, he was just _another gentleman._

* * *

 

**A couple of years back...**

* * *

 

“Sir, the _Buckingham_ _palace_ called.” Came _the secretary_ after a brief knock on Mycroft Holmes’ office door. The man in his grey suit didn’t even blink an eye from the folder he was holding while seated on his chair inside his dark and secluded office.

 _“Oh, surprise me.”_ he muttered to himself as he flipped a page with a curt frown. “Does this J. Moriarty know no bounds? He even sent his own _profile_ to me... childish... _yet highly destructive.”_

“Excuse me sir, I believe they need you immediately for this one.”

“Do they want me to fly a jet there or—?”

“Sir, it’s about the _E-Protocol_.”

Mycroft finally glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Good lord, are they already planning to make a move on that one? After years of wait and thorough blockage of media?”

She merely stared at him. Mycroft pressed a smile at her lack of reply and put a finger on his forehead. After some thoughts he looked down at his pocket watch and looked up again.

“Fine. Get Darcy in line, will you?”

“Already on the page, sir.” She left shortly just as Mycroft took the telephone and pressed number 2. A second breath next, somebody answered the other line. Mycroft raised his head. “Harry, it’s me. I would have thought you’d call directly first before I hear from my secretary. Do you still want me there or you rather we have it here now? I realise you’re already planning to make it public.”

 _“It depends.”_ came a swift answer of a man’s voice, _“Are there other pressing matters that require your immediate attention other than the royal engagement of a family member of mine?”_

“I’m no fan of such occasions _or its planning_.” Mycroft rolled his eyes as he threw the J.Moriarty’s file on his desk, “But I do _security_ measures so unless that is the concern you can save me the greetings to the lucky ones. And might I remind you, _sir Harry_ , that we made _codes_ so that messages remain _coded._ You can’t just throw words ‘royal’ and ‘engagement’ like that—that’s why we termed the _E-Protocol_ for the people outside the prior intelligence. It’s _Ring_ Protocol in your family and relative’s case so you better call it that. I thought we agreed?”

_“My dear Mycroft, in my family we just call it the ‘engagement’. You can imagine how excited everyone is when William confirm—”_

“Stop mentioning names now.” The British government man scowled, “I have a pretty good picture of the elation everyone in the _family_ must be feeling but for goodness sake, use the _codes!_ ”

_“You won’t be calling me directly if you think this line is not secured now?”_

“Obviously.” Mycroft looked up as he heard a knock on his door. “But I rather you use the codes. If the wedding is to commence next year then that’s where we drop the codes. Or maybe not. Wedding security measures will be called _Bell Protocols_ for outsiders and _Knot Pronto_ for within the family _.”_

There always had to be a separate title for the same meaning. _Security._

And of course the inevitable grandchildren will be called _Tiny Protocols_ but Mycroft refrained from saying so. His secretary’s head then appeared by the doorway.

 “Sir?”

“Send me all the files you find about this man.” He handed her the Moriarty file and blinked when she remained.

“Yes sir... and sir...?” she hesitated in an undertone as Mycroft turned on the phone again, “ _Your brother has just burned his flat down.”_

The man rolled his eyes in exasperation as she closed the door behind her.

“Harry? Excuse me, will you? Something came up and it needs my full attention. I can fly there soon as I finish this... give me details of the photo call. You always like your timetable. See you.” He jammed down the phone receiver once the _other_ line had hung up and dug for his mobile phone inside his chest pocket.

In the next second he was already in the middle of an argument with his younger sibling.

“No, Sherlock, I _didn’t_ set up any cameras on your previous flat so there was no need for you to intentionally burn it down. Do you want me to label you as an _arsonist?_ What? Stop hallucinating, why would I do that? Now, the cameras outside the flat— _that_ I can take responsibility of— I’m sorry?”

Sherlock seemed to be babbling again. Or was he mentioning numbers?

“ _221B.”_ Sherlock’s voice could be heard from the phone, “ _That’s Baker Street address to save you the trouble of nosing around, that’s the place I’m eyeing right now. Have my things delivered there today, will you?_ ”

“221—B—Baker Street,” Mycroft repeated slowly as he took his red notebook and started scribbling it down, “hang on a second, I’m jotting it down.”

_“Don’t be boring, Mycroft! We both know you don’t need that.”_

“ _Nonsense,_ you’re not the only one who knows how to erase data, you know.”

Mycroft pressed his eyes closed as he made a mental note to tell his secretary to start navigating to find information geographically and search about the neighbourhood of this 221B, the owner, the residents plus each and everyone’s background to mark and wondered how long his brother would last in the address this time just as Sherlock went on—

 “ _You don’t erase anything!_ Now do something good for once and try not to scare away any flatmates I may have in the future with your boring way of _just appearing_ again _._ ”

“That’s preposterous! You can do that perfectly without my help. Who’d want you for a flatmate when you infest yourself with extraordinary things like dead bodies inside cabinets or their body parts lying on the bed; let alone tell your flatmate his previous whereabouts or whenabouts or whatabouts? I’d wager whoever can tolerate it is highly _disturbing—”_

“Hmm? Funny, I was just about to invite you—you fall right in the category—” he sneered-

“ _Tempting_ , really.” Mycroft gritted his teeth forcefully, “But no, thank you. You just burned the last one—”

“That’s my point.”

The older Holmes made a face as there was a definitive sound of a matter-of-fact in his younger brother’s voice that made the older Holmes shook his head in disbelief.

“Do you really need this… _flatmate?_ Through the course of your flat hopping since you left home you’ve never seen the need of one. Gotten tired of your friendly _skull?_ ”

“ _Because you’re not a healthy companion either_ —”

 _“_ Why not—?” his defiance was of outrage.

“ _And why wouldn’t I need one? I need somebody to help me pay the rent—not cameras and a lone constant dangerous visitor who just comes to annoy me not minding if his enemies is on his tail directly on my doorstep—”_

“That never happened. I never _slip_. _And do you really think I’d let my enemies to come at your doorstep?”_

“ _So you have enemies!”_ there was a jubilant tone in his voice that only made the older Holmes sigh.

“Acting like you just found out now—?”

“ _So? Did you try with the CIA again?”_

“No— _you’re not supposed to ask questions like that! For goodness sake, do you want to be accused of treason? Now, it would be different if you, my brother, would just accept the occupation I offer you—to work for your country—make use of your given talents and not waste in petty crimes—”_

 _“I feel sorry for myself already.”_ Sherlock’s voice had gotten hard. _“Boasting are we?”_

“You know that’s not what I meant— _this is not a competition!_ ”

_“I know that’s why you need to keep your business away if you don’t want me poking around your giant and global crisis; same way you leave my premises alone.”_

Mycroft heaved a sigh with fingers at the bridge of his nose.

“And this flatmate you’re requiring?”

_“None of your business—”_

“It is too—I’m concerned Sherlock—”

_“What? Fancy an interview?”_

Mycroft chuckled. “If you can find one then _lo and behold!”_

_“And just how hard looking for a flatmate can be? I’m not you— a misanthropic excuse—”_

Mycroft have had enough. “I wish you luck with your future flatmate then, brothermine. Off my call then.”

 _“Just leave my business alone, Mycroft.”_ It was a warning that only made Mycroft smile. His secretary glided inside again and handed him a police report file.

“What business? You mean being a consulting detective? Sounds highly prolific, don’t you think? _The world’s only consulting detective who cracks cases..._ You do love your drama?”

He heard Sherlock click his tongue impatiently and the older Holmes smiled in satisfaction.

“But you sure you can last long?”

“ _What do you mean last long?”_

“Well, it needs quick mind and assessment doesn’t it? Then why on your current case—” he glanced briefly at the last page before raising his head up and nodding at her, “how come you can’t see the obvious mistake in alibi? What do you need to go to the morgue for when everything’s in the police report? It’s quite obvious, really. I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

 _“Piss off, Mycroft!”_ Sherlock hung up in anger, making Mycroft smile yet again as he put his phone inside his coat.

“Always hot headed, my brother.” he muttered as he raised an eyebrow and looked outside the window with indifference, “He won’t be of any use if he keeps up with that atomic temperament of his.”

“Is that why you always tease him?” a smile tugged at the corner of her lips as her boss looked at her.

“Why no.” He shrugged in mock surprise, “I just happened to be his brother.”

“What’s he going to do at the morgue?”

“Probably to beat some poor corpse with a riding crop— what else do you have for me?”

She nodded and gave him another folder.

“Police report sir, the three victims with connection to the J.M files.”

Mycroft took the folder and read it with eyebrows rising. Just then, his phone beeped with a text. He casually took it out from his breast pocket and read—

_Your little brother’s got a fan here. Hi- J. Moriarty_

At that exact time Sherlock arrived at the morgue with a riding crop to release his anger towards his idiotic brother.

It hadn’t been a few hours when Mycroft received a message from the palace. The royal couple was supposed to announce their engagement at the State Rooms of St. James’s Palace and to be held next year. The British Head was already contemplating of the different codes they could use for security measures—it had always been a call for him to set different codes per person involved especially when it comes to the royal family; be it inside or out, people need to use different codes for the same purpose —when his secretary came in his office again without much as a knock.

He looked at her inquiringly. “Is it my brother?”

“Yes sir, it would seem he has found himself a _flatmate_.”

“Miraculously? What he do—put an advertisement for potential human sacrifice?” he raised an eyebrow as he quickly took the folder handed to him. He then scanned down the unknown man’s profile, all the while his back straightening up, and expression becoming severe by the moment.

“He has potential if he’s from military background... they’re sort of.... _durable._ Early retirement from an injury... but, _oh Lord..._ that could make it worst.” He turned a page, his eyes narrowing. After a long moment of silence and page turns, the man put the folder down and eyed his secretary.

“Arrange our meeting this evening.”

“Personally sir? The last time somebody bothered with your brother it was only a video letter—”

“No. This one requires full attention. No, I need to see him _myself._ ”

“Should he be invited directly or...?”

“No... _no..._ let me show him _what I can do._ If it turns out he’s like the rest of the world then we may have to eliminate him. Send him to the farthest corner of London if needed be.”

Mycroft raised his head with a little curt, his face impassive as ever.

“ _Let’s see what he’s made of.”_

* * *

 

**_Present..._ **

* * *

 

When he saw the former army doctor appear before his eyes in that anarchic scene made of guns and rebels, Mycroft knew his plan had to be enacted. It wasn’t any sacrifice on his part, no. It was the best move he could make if he wanted to save _that life_ that had gone and save _his younger brother’s life_ plenty of times in his place.

Mycroft had seen what John Watson was made of. From his stubbornness to follow his invitation to sit and comply to his offer, the older Holmes had known he might just be one of the doses that Sherlock needed. His younger brother had always been a bit _spoiled_ by getting everything he wanted and act the way he does. Maybe a little cross and petulant person could teach Sherlock a thing or two.

And he wasn’t wrong. John Watson was an imperative in Sherlock’s life.

That’s why he, Mycroft, _will not lose him._

Not when everything at fault until this moment was centred around him.

Sacrifice? Don’t be absurd. Protection. He owed that to John Watson.

So he went out of the van and stepped into the light in the middle of the darkened trees and presented himself to that _person._ He eyed John and wanted to know if his nine-day wonder was worth it but saw the tall leader of the opposing side smile at him.

_“Mycroft Holmes.”_

“So it’s you after all.”

Those dark eyes glinted. “You remember?” there was a curious tone in his voice.

“* _Bana hakaret ediyorsun_.” Mycroft raised a natural eyebrow as he spoke making Sherlock glance at him. “You were the only _Turkish_ man I saw in that hideous interrogation cell... _of course I’d remember_.”

The Turkish man smiled as he reached his hand on his ring again.

“* _Etkileyici_...”

Mycroft smiled too. “Much more than that, I know _who sent you._ You’re one of the _Fethullahists, a_ Turkish organization intent to divide its nation...I’ve read your file... and I can see your ring.”

That wiped the smile off the Turkish man who slowly put his hands down.

“That’s _better.”_ The older Holmes murmured to himself as he advanced himself forward with Sherlock slowly walking beside him with guns all pointed in their direction. Mycroft went on with a new vigour he mustered to achieve with body surprisingly numbing by the minute.

“I should be the one impressed with how you took advantage of the situation here... The fact that you knew when to act... that you have a man of mine in your hands was of no coincidence,” he nodded at John, “and you here lying in wait like everything was falling in your hands...I wouldn’t be surprised if you know about the Russian exchange and the force waiting to ambush them. It would be presumptuous of me to assume it’s all part of your plan, that would give you too much credit. This was not premeditate...”

Mycroft’s eyed narrowed as he glowered at his adversary.

“No— _you followed the tide._ But it wouldn’t have worked without intelligence. Do tell me, how deep have you rooted in the PSNI force?”

Roylott threw a look at the British Head’s direction. “What—”

“A classified op with plenty of things out. Do the math.” The detective muttered under his breath.

“We can talk about this some other time.” The Turkish man responded quietly after a short pause with eyes hinting interest as he eyed Mycroft Holmes with amusement. “You seem to really inspire people to want to find what _else_ _you know._ It seems your file isn’t overselling you. You are the true deal. You seem to know about everything in a short time.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Then you also know how we’ve heard of you and why we want you?”he raised his hand and John was nudged forward at a gun point. “We can exchange ideas later when we have time to ourselves but for now I need to make sure you come with me alive.”

“You make it sound like I’m a suicide maniac.”

“I saw you, Mr. Holmes, during your hours of interrogation. Tight lipped than most soldiers I’ve seen. Your loyalty is outstanding and very difficult to handle. We don’t want you to lose your ability to speak before we can even use you in exchange to all the trouble we went.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen better days.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” the Turkish man’s ever black eyes flashed.

Mycroft smiled shortly. “You tell me.”

The tall man held his palm towards John who was looking at Mycroft hard before averting it to Sherlock. The detective returned the gaze firmly before turning to his brother with quite an intense look which was ignored as the older Holmes inclined his head to him and Roylott.

“They leave this place first.” The British head looked at John and then looked back at his adversary. “You seem desperate for the trade so I’d say I have the advantage. _You let them go and I come quietly.”_

“Of course, that’s part of the plan.” The militant leader smiled. Nodding his head, the guy holding John at gunpoint lowered his weapon and shoved the army doctor forward, leaving John to glare at them, before looking at Mycroft and Sherlock who both nodded at him. Slowly, he took steps forward.

Nobody made other movements. It might have felt a whole year to John but once he was beside the detective did he quickly hissed—

_“What the hell are you both doing? What’s Mycroft doing?”_

“You ready for Vatican Cameos?” Sherlock inquired, making John frown at him but the detective motioned for him to stay silent with eyes turning at their enemies again. Silence fell in the air as the Turkish man watched the British Head with curiosity still deep in his glinting dark eyes.

“You seem awfully calm.”

Mycroft sighed. “That’s me.”

“It’s disquieting.”

“It’s a fact. Now, if you’d only allow them to leave peacefully... I want to make sure you keep them breathing.”

“If you’d keep the end of the bargain then I’m sure we can finish this before your British troupe comes.”

Mycroft took a step forward—

And then things began happening fast before Mycroft had realised what was going on—quick movements happened on his peripheral vision and the next thing somebody had gruffly suffocated him—an arm was wrapped so steadily by his neck, pulling him back brusquely—and then a familiar cold metal was pressed at his temple.

“You want this man?” said the voice of Assistant Commissioner Roylott who angrily pressed the gun on. There were various reactions from the people around while Mycroft himself tried not to choke on his own tongue at how forceful the officer was. “Well, you can’t have him! I’ve heard enough to understand you want something from this man badly—and whatever he tells you will not benefit _my country!_ You can have all your rubbish back in your mouth— _nobody’s having him!_ _I’ll kill him!”_

Mycroft could not think—his back was aching like it was on fire—

“Roylott...” Sherlock’s steady voice was coming from behind, _“Don’t you dare...”_

“What?” the PSNI in charge stepped backwards, his grip on the older Holmes tightening as he glanced wildly at the guns pointed in his direction, “If we’re going to die anyway then so be it! One or three men isn’t worthy of the hundred deaths any information your brother will give them! To these terrorists! No ransom—that’s always been the code in this situations! _You’d agree too, Mr. Holmes, won’t you?_ ”

Mycroft licked his lips with eyes half closed.

“ _My... sentiments exactly.”_

* * *

 

**Code**

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

**_*_ ** _Bana hakaret ediyorsun- "You insult me"_

 _*_ _Etkileyici- "Impressive"_

_**Thanks for reading! :)** _


	7. Complex

_Out of the frying pan into the fire..._

Mycroft couldn’t help but recite the phrase in his mind as he tilted his chin up with his neck too strained by the arm holding him, making it difficult to catch his breath and have any view of those around. He was held firmly by the Assistant Commissioner’ bulky arm; Roylott was not taller than him but large enough to hold him down and restrain any further struggle. His grip was too forceful and wild like at every turn of his body he might just accidentally pull the trigger. Not that Mycroft planned to go anywhere soon. As far as he was concerned his beaten body had reached its limit of movement that every shift of his feet was a curse, he could barely support his weight. Even his hearing had become quite a problem that the idea of a gun on his head hardly registered.

But what Roylott said _did_ make sense. It was one of the most reasonable things Mycroft had heard for days.

The shadows of the militants were all in position to shoot and that was keeping the suspense in the air. Aiming to fire but not doing so for they were waiting for the order which by far, hadn’t come.

“Roylott...” Sherlock’s voice said in the middle of the rising action, “You don’t have to do this... _please..._ ”

Mycroft coughed and opened his eyes, his eyebrows contorted.

“You know bloody hell it has to be done. I don’t care what happens to me—to none of you—but you’re not having him.” The determined constable dug the point of the gun at the side of Mycroft’s forehead that made the British head grit his teeth. _“Make a move and I shoot him!”_

The threat hung in the air amidst all the rebel guns. There was no apparent movement, just steady arms and hands. The Turkish man was silent with a hand on top of his ring again and his silence was most alarming, his eyes narrowed and unblinking.

“Surely you won’t...?” began the man till they heard the lock of the gun’s trigger clicked.

Eyes widened, breathe sucked in. The Turkish leader’s expression darkened than ever and it was the longest second for everybody in the area, until finally, he dropped his hands and all militant guns were lowered down.

The unexpected response even made the constable look around uncertainly. Mycroft could judge his every movement. He shifted his feet and looked from left to right but his hand was ever steady on his hold of his gun.

“Okay...” Roylott breathed hard after awhile, “so that’s how it’s going to be...”

The British Government head read the situation with his eyes falling on the Turkish man.

That was when he felt Roylott stir him and before everyone’s eyes, the Assistant Commissioner suddenly began moving backwards. As slowly as he could, he dragged Mycroft with him within the silence that threatened to break any moment if one wrong movement or a changed of wind arose. Mycroft had gone silent in those moments as well, feeling his every movement and the beating heart of the man behind him.

Then he heard the van door open—

Guns were pointed at them again fast but it was the Turkish man himself who ordered the halt when for the -ent time, Mycroft gritted his teeth as he felt the point of the gun dig deeper on the side of his head too strongly.

“ _I won’t try that if I were you.”_ Hissed the manic sounding officer and guns were lowered once more. He waded himself backwards till he passed from the car door with eyes on his enemies. “I swear to god I’d kill this guy before you can be finished with me. Between escaping now and killing him, two things I can accomplish.”

No response except another silence.

Anything could have happened in the next second when the British Head felt himself get shoved inside the van with John unsurprisingly by the driver’s seat and Sherlock seated beside him. With the gun still hovering on his head, the engine was turned on and with one reverse moved the van streaked out of the middle of the war—

And still the rebels did not raise their guns and merely watched as the van turned once and sped up into the road and out on free way. The army doctor accelerated that brushed the dark trees blurry to their sight until they were miles away.

Sherlock looked at the side mirror while John did the rear view.

“Nothing?” asked the detective in alert.

“Nothing.” John shook his head.

“Speed up. They’ll follow us.”

“Bloody hell they will.” The car jumped into another speed. It was another minute or two before the people in the car could calm down as they checked their backs and still see nothing.

Mycroft sighed after another minute with eyes closed. The gun was already lowered down.

Roylott who was beside him glanced at him shortly and was brisk and business like saying— “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. Just following orders.”

“I guessed as much.” He raised his eyes and found his younger brother looking at him with a grin from ear to ear.

 “Are you alright, Mycroft? I’ve never seen you look so _better._ ”

“Your view always amazes me.”

“Then perhaps you start looking into mine.” There was a sudden serious glint in his eyes that only made the older Holmes stare, until he waved it away with both eyebrows rising.

“Well... when did you plan this?”

 _“While you were sleeping.”_ Sherlock’s eyes flickered with a winning smile on his lips, “I figured there’s no stopping you jumping to the enemy’s arms like it’s a newly found habit unless I stop it by force. Good thing there are many people here willing to point a gun at you.”

 _“You really know how to push your luck, don’t you?_ ” Mycroft muttered gravely as he glared beside him to the officer now sitting next to him innocently. “And I’ll have you know I’ll get you back for this.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“It was just a gun. Did it with John awhile back, right, John?” the doctor gave him a look that said _‘don’t involve me’._

 _“He doesn’t know me.”_ Mycroft glared.

“Another good thing.”

“Why?” the Assistant Commissioner turned at the older Holmes with an alarmed look, “Did I just point a gun at a royal family member?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him.

“Close enough.” Sherlock smiled that made Roylott stare at him in disbelief. Then he turned to his brother once more. “How did you know it was an act?”

“Try listening to your voice, brothermine.” The older Holmes said in a matter of fact tone, “I know when you are distressed and know when you’re pulling my leg. I had to know the difference. Besides, this gentleman here could but control his heart beat.”

“How would you know from a heartbeat?” John wanted to know but was ignored when the detective rolled his eyes at his best friend as if it was too obvious before turning back to the officer.

“It wouldn’t have work if it weren’t somebody from this place. They wouldn’t have believed me of course so it had to be you; someone who really means to pull the trigger. And unless you say those old fashioned notion of patriotism and clearly not give a damn about this precious brother of mine, we could have died.”

“Still very risky.” John said from the front seat with a frown now forming on his head as what just occurred sunk to him. “What if they waited if he really would _shoot?”_

_“No, they won’t.”_

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t. It was a trial.” Sherlock straightened on his chair while the doctor looked at him with mouth gaping. “But I never guessed. Mycroft seems important to them, of course they won’t let him die.” To the rear view mirror, he looked straight at his exasperated brother with another faint smile, “Good thing they badly need you, brother, _well done!”_

Mycroft grimaced and shifted on his seat with eyes turning to the windows.

“You noticed they let us off without a chase? It’s not real.”

Sherlock’s demeanour changed sourly. “ _I know._ ”

John immediately looked at his side mirror. “There’s nothing there. I would’ve thought there’d be right behind us.”

“Or.” Mycroft stared ahead too. “ _Already in front. I’m certain of an ambush.”_

“What?” Roylott turned from one brother to another. “There’s more?”

“You better believe my brother, he’s always accurate.” The detective narrowed his eyes as he glanced at the officer. “And no, we can’t use the hostage tactic twice. They would have realised by now it nothing but a scheme.”

“So where are we heading now?” John drove on in the middle of the dark, “If what I heard is correct we should be meeting up with your military convoy heading this way?”

“ _We cannot trust them.”_ Sherlock said plainly all of a sudden. He received another one of the doctor’s many shocked expressions.

“But they are the British troupes why shouldn’t we—?”

 _“John.”_ The detective looked pointedly at his friend. “You were taken while you were with them and Carruther’s dead.”

The horror in the man’s eyes was clearly visible at the news of one fallen agent while the detective fixed him a look of utmost severity. Mycroft looked down his clenched hand looking unsurprised while Roylott remained silent.

“They also lost us quite easily despite the fact that they are our escort. There too many lapses and questionable things... _too obvious things all coming together... which could only mean one thing...”_ he glanced up at the rear view mirror towards his brother again who met his eyes squarely. _“Someone from the British Government with power is also behind this.”_

Mycroft’s cold expression was too icy. _“Elementary.”_

“ _No way...”_

“Given the circumstances,” the older Holmes supplied casually, “they chose this moment to attack when they thought I am vulnerable. The internet scandal gave them all the openings. _Typical._ ”

 _“Typical?”_ John said with a strain in his tone. Was he the only one seeing the complexity of the situation? “You call that _typical?_ _People are trying to murder you and you call that normal? Just what kind of world are you living in?”_

Sherlock smiled slightly while Mycroft blinked and looked up curiously.

“What a very strange question, John. _I thought you knew.”_

“You mean to say we’re running for our lives because some higher up also wants you _out?_ ”

“Easy math, wasn’t it?” Mycroft offered.

Which made the doctor grit his teeth and turn his eyes back to the road with a newly found line increased on his forehead. Silence fell in the group for awhile until the doctor broke his with a turn of the clutch.

“There’s something you need to know, Sherlock.”

“The more the merrier.”

“ _I’m serious._ There’s a very dangerous man out there.”

Sherlock glanced behind to Mycroft again whose eyebrows rose questioningly to heaven once more.

“Okay, looking right at him. Now what?”

“He’s not who I meant!” the doctor injected with another step on the accelerator, “There was another guy there in the place where they took me. It’s not really an exact spot, they had me blindfolded... the Turkish guy you were talking to? They call him Serςe but there was another _guy._ ”

Another exchange of looks from the Holmes brothers as John went on—

“ _American._ I didn’t see him they stuck me in the car but I could hear his voice, his accent was a dead giveaway. They talked in codes and numbers.”

“I know him. What did you hear?” Mycroft inquired with a glint in his eyes.

“Something about a line...” the doctor glanced up at the rear view mirror. _“Line protocol?”_

Sherlock frowned at the doctor and then turned a look at the mirror exactly as he saw his brother’s face paled. He looked like he had seen a ghost with his eyes wide from the sudden bolt from the blue. That didn’t bode well.

“Oh.” Was the only thing he was able to say as he resumed a blank expression on his white face with a distant look in his eyes.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock whispered as he looked behind him directly to his brother. “What?”

But the older Holmes shut his thin lips closed that told the detective that was the end of the discussion.

“You’re going to have to confirm that to me soon.”

Mycroft glowered. _“Treason, brother.”_

“It’s always treason with you.”

“It’s different this time.”

“Where do we go from here?” John called before the two could start another glaring match. The road was still long but there were no other vehicles that could be seen. “If there’s an ambush waiting for us out here—?”

“We can’t use the old Belfast road if that’s the case. It’s the point straight main road used by many and Belfast is still far off.” the Assistant Commissioner rose with a frown on his face. “If we need back up from people we can trust we have to reach Commissioner Bradstreet. They should be back at the Head Quarters from the Russian encounter; it’s been over two hours.”

“It’s half past three to be exact.” Mycroft offered without much as glance.

“Exact? How did you know?”

“Never mind him, he’s a walking metronome.” Sherlock shook his head, “Now where can we stay and recuperate in this area? We can’t reach Belfast and not run into the expected pursuers. Frankly, I don’t think we should meet anyone at all given the circumstances; we need a place where we can be _invisible_ to avoid detection and curious eyes _._ We need to contact Bradstreet and keep hidden while doing so. Roylott?”

“If it’s a hidden town there’s Newtownbreda to the left of this road. It’s not a short cut but it will eventually lead us to Belfast main. If you turn to a sign of Purdysburn road after another mile we’ll reach it.”

John did the turn and a long road of curved sections greeted their head lights.

The Assistant Commissioner finally gave his full attention to the British Government head with a deep scowl on his face that didn’t escape Mycroft who looked back quietly.

_“So in fact you are somebody with power from the higher government?”_

Mycroft considered with an eyebrow flying so high.

“I don’t look it but yes. I know how clothes can be an appalling first impression.” He turned to his brother abruptly. “I need a change of clothes, Sherlock.”

“Why? That suits you perfectly.” The detective grinned from ear to ear, making the older Holmes sigh and shake his head.

“If I am considered _important_ on both sides I might as well look it.”

“You’re in disguise.”

The older Holmes paused and then gave another sigh.

_“I hate undercover ops.”_

* * *

 

They reached the gloomy place of Newtownbreda right before dawn with the gray bluish light of the sky giving them a view of a bleak atmosphere of houses and empty streets. Crows were rampant up the sky that added to the distaste of the murky town. If it wasn’t to the early risers cleaning and opening their business shops, they would have thought it one of those ghost towns. Assistant Commissioner pointed towards a street that read _Beechill Road_ and from there he led them to the almost secluded housings of a _Berkley CT_.

Sherlock glanced at the officer after their vehicle went pass a lone stone tower.

“ _Eyes on Northern Ireland._ Seriously?”

“It’s as invisible as you get.”

“Why, what’s that?” John pointed a look at his passengers.

“It’s a caring institution for blind children.” Mycroft supplied with a heavy frown on his face.

It took them another half an hour to find the place to settle in—it was an empty one floor lodge recommended strongly by the Assistant Commissioner found at the outskirt of town. Once out of the car, Sherlock eyed the vicinity sharply.

“There should be a constable around, I’ll go check their communication line.” Roylott took the vehicle’s key from the doctor and exchanged it with the house key. “Will you lot be fine here?”

Sherlock looked at the wide open sky where birds flew in flocks.

“It’s fine.”

“Mycroft?” John had bowed down to the van’s backseat to the older Holmes whom he found was fast asleep with chin on his chest. The man stirred and looked up at the doctor with blurry eyes. There was a certain colour on his face, one that didn’t escape the doctor who reached a hand on Mycroft’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Yes, I felt that too.” He shook his head and accepted John’s hand and slid out of the van into the morning light. “That’s been awhile...” he coughed hard, making his younger brother look at him.

“Get him inside.”

“He’s got a temperature.”

“He’s been walking around half dead for half the night, of course he has.” He rounded on the vehicle’s cargo and opened it, took a large medical box and a metal hanging rod and then shut it close.

“We’ll get in touch.” With a nod at the Assistant Commissioner, they turned towards the house just as the van drove away.

John Watson had been busy from that moment on. Setting up the sanitation of the room and the IV drop carefully, he was very firm and indignant the moment he removed Mycroft’s clothes hiding his bloody bandages.

“You’ve been moving around with _these?_ ” he demanded as he gazed at the gashes and open wounds that had started to bleed again right on Mycroft’s front while the man sat on the bed quietly. “ _You shouldn’t have been forcing yourself!”_

The British Government head gave a small, unsympathetic smile but didn’t say anything, making the doctor square his jaw and with his reprimanding nature, started cleaning each and every wound gently, wrapping them with clean gauzes and applying extra ointment for the pain. Mycroft’s head had been floating in his mind palace, _that,_ or he was already delirious with profuse sweat on his face.

Once done of the front, the grumpy doctor rounded on the bed—and was aghast by the injury at the back.

“ _Jesus, Mycroft... what have they done to you?”_

With a little more care, he instructed the man to lie on his side while he addressed the wound with expression hard and jaws clenched. Sherlock came back after another half an hour carrying packs of meal and was on time to receive and angry glare from his best friend. Mycroft was on the bed, dead to the world.

“I didn’t give him any morphine.” The doctor began as he removed his white gloves and threw them on the almost full trash bin. “Or even sleeping tablet in case we get under fire from those rebels.”

“We’re quite safe.”

“Did you contact the secret service? His secretary?”

There was a pause. Then the detective shook his impassive face. “No. I want to keep everything out of radar. _I don’t trust any of them._ ”

“So we’ll be here for an indefinite number of time?”

“Just for awhile. Until Mycroft decides who to trust.” He looked over his older brother. “How he?”

“Tough as old boots.” He turned his eyes to older Holmes, “I had to do twelve stitches over all—did you know he had that nasty burn at his back? The skin’s burnt, it’ll definitely leave a mark.”

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded without blinking. “A good reminder he’s not invincible after all that _power_ he’s got.”

John slumped on the next chair and took a coffee can from Sherlock’s pack.

“Right. May I just clear— _are we running away from the government?”_

“Apparently.”

“Do we get wanted posters?”

Sherlock smiled and sat on the opposite chair. “Who needs posters. You can easily blogged it out to the world and tell them we’re doing this case—which of course will _make my brother_ shut down the blog site and accuse you of treason and send you back to the army to save the trouble of imprisoning you. Sounds good?”

“If he’s that powerful why not send his jet planes all over here?” he drank the coffee.

“In due time.” The detective glanced at his brother’s sleeping form again. “Let’s just keep him breathing before he does that.”

A chuckle escaped the doctor. He received a sharp glare from the detective.

“What?”

“Well, I used to think you hate your brother, Sherlock.”

“Who doesn’t.”

“All those complaints and nasty remarks you throw at each other... you both always go at each other’s throat when you don’t see eye to eye _which was often._ All this time I thought you hate him because of a simple _superior brother complex.”_

“You’re not one to talk when you had the same sentiments with your sister.”

The doctor raised his eyes up straight to the detective.

“At least my sister doesn’t get kidnapped when we argue nor get threatened. The worst thing that could happen was a bottle on her head and even she can be just as resilient. But we’re talking about your brother here which Harry’s situation can never be compared with— _but_ , if my sister was to do something so dangerous I would also be _always angry every time we see each other.”_

“ _Your point?_ ”

“Have you told Mycroft how worried you’ve been?”

A blank stare covered the detective’s eyes. “What?”

John shook his head. _“That’s the thing with you, Sherlock—you’re always the gun and run type with your emotions—”_

“You think I haven’t shoved it on his face?” the response caught the doctor off guard that for a second he only stared at his friend whose eyes were brooding, “Try having your sibling come back from the grave like that and you’ll be singing the same tune, John. He knows it but he’s having a hard time accepting it because you know what? You’re right— it _is_ a _superior brother complex_.”

* * *

 

_“John thinks I’m not worried about you.”_

“Where does he get that idea?”

It was already noon by the time Mycroft had opened his eyes and found his younger brother watching him from a corner. The curtains were down but faint light was coming from the bleak atmosphere of the silent vicinity. Refreshed as he was from a truly long sleep—and one he needed badly, the British Head had sat up straight after a few minutes of lying on the bed with eyes on the ceiling. Sherlock allowed him to untangle his thoughts before helping the older Holmes to sit up with that IV drop forever attached on his arm.

“Where’s he and why does he think that?” Mycroft touched his arm with the needle before looking slowly at his younger brother who remained rooted on the spot just beside the bed.

“Buying something for lunch, we leased a car. Probably because I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve been shoving it on my face since we met—”

“Told him that. I said it didn’t sit well with you when the _younger brother’s worried._ ”

“Are we going all sentimental again right after I wake up?”

“Why not?” there was truly a curious tone in Sherlock’s voice with his sharp eyes that said he was serious to know.

Mycroft stared at his brother and even afford to blink up with dark lines under his eyes.

“I didn’t realise...” the man then muttered after awhile, “or maybe I did... you’re still that same old baby brother with plenty of questions.”

That got Sherlock to purse his lips.

“I’m no baby—”

“You’re really growing into John.” The older Holmes shook his head slightly and looked around with a lick on his dry lips. “Get me some water, please?”

“Don’t you think you should too?” Sherlock suggested as he rounded back and gave his brother a glass of water, “You’ve always had that emotional range of salt pinch.”

“And you’re an emotional expert now?” Mycroft asked testily with an eyebrow up after sipping his much needed drink. “If I needed counselling I wouldn’t be going to you—someone who’s like a hurricane once he felt everything—”

“ _If you can go to anyone at all—”_ the detective smirked.

“I don’t plan to go all _mawkish_ on anyone, Sherlock. Least of all to myself.” he let the glass be taken when his brother offered a hand and brushed his no nonsense attitude forward. “If you are ruled out by your emotions things get even more _complicated_. _It’s a weakness._ One you shouldn’t practice at unnecessary times—”

“But you do understand?” the detective’s voice had change a note, it was barely a whisper. He was looking at his brother with undivided attention and with sharp blazes on his eyes. “ _I am concerned about you?_ ”

It was Mycroft who smirked this time.

“You don’t need to tell me anything. _You’re already here.”_

A poignant moment as it was, it was disrupted when a car’s engine stopped in front of the house and John came calling from the outside door that opened and slammed close. The Holmes brothers turned their eyes immediately as the doctor came with a dishevelled and alarmed look on his face with hands gripping the meal packets he bought.

 _“_ You’ve got to see the news— _London’s been attacked!”_

* * *

 

_**Complex** _

* * *

**_~To be continued~_ **

*fiction*fiction*

_**Thanks for reading! :)** _


	8. Catalyst

_“If you come any closer to Sherlock again, I’ll show you what only **I can do**.” Mycroft had said to **him** once. _

**_He_ ** _remembered Mycroft’s usually dead eyes glinted like it never had; a dragon awoken on its lair from a deep slumber, threatened and ready to strike with its deadliest fire. Proving for the first time that he was the wrong man to be trifled with, Mycroft Holmes._

_Was it **his** fault young Sherlock got addicted to cocaine at the age of 20 after a little experiment? That the young Sherlock discovered other ways to heighten his senses other than crossword puzzles and chasing off criminals to unsatisfying ends?_

**_He_ ** _merely provided the match; it was Sherlock who lit the fire and set things ablaze._

_But one thing was for certain however—Mycroft was unforgiving._

It wasn’t an empty threat, **he** knew that much. Still, **he** found it amusing that _Mycroft Holmes_ found grounds to even threaten **him.** Mycroft who years back was the silent observer—never caring for anything in the world except when he meant to which was rare; Mycroft who liked his own world, rid of _stupidity_ and _human err and only to himself._ He was the little perfectionist and it was quite easy to lead him when _they_ shared the same talents and faculties.

 _Mycroft was easy to control back then too because he didn’t like the world—full of stupid people and their too-easy-to-read-behaviours—_ Mycroft who allows himself to be controlled because he was unbothered of any results, really.

_And now who was Mycroft Holmes? That silent youth with knowledge more than encyclopaedias put together? Who was that youth who bluntly threatened him despite their difference in power?_

_Why—working in the government under a whisper— and only the most powerful man behind the British Government—almost contesting ‘his’ reputation of being the lord of the underground network—the chief of all Black Markets in the world._

_He remembered the last time they met—when Mycroft had him surrounded with CIA agents a few years back. They had stood face to face in the same manner when the secret British Government head looked at him with cold, calculating eyes that didn’t reflect any recognition except plain, icy intimidation._

_“Mycroft.” He smiled in congratulatory. “You framed me.”_

_“All is well.” was Mycroft’s only reply.”To exile.”_

He will never forget that day when the CIA agents finally took hold of him after decades of evading, and that it only took _one Mycroft Holmes_ to take him down. He secretly applauded for who _else was capable_? He didn’t like to admit it but Mycroft got him that time, and _really bad._ Accounts shut, passports null, identity on the records and surrendered to CIA—American authorities _lack_ finesse with criminals.

To ** _his_** exile— _all because Mycroft didn’t want him anywhere near Sherlock._

_Years and more years passed and to the later date he didn’t care if they die, these Mycroft and Sherlock._

_It wasn’t anything like antagonism, no. In fact, he barely concerned himself with them at all. It wasn’t that he found revenge unappealing— a genius consequently finds a genius– but he finds the two brothers still dull and amateurs—dull with the boundaries they set for themselves of self righteousness, and amateur for being unable to scrape off the last piece of the puzzle that kept them attach to the world— ‘sentiment’._

_It was an agony to watch them waste their talents on the petty._

_Still in recent years even while at America, he couldn’t help but notice the imbalance created by such great minds even from across the Atlantic._

_He watched them—observed them from his many eyes how they pull strings, miracles and mysteries right under the public eye. Mycroft who was more sensible to keep everything in secrecy— even his name barely a whisper and his shadow thoroughly unseen if he bid it—_ while Sherlock _, dear Sherlock,_ unable to contain his love for the _drama_ with public attention all for himself and the act one hero with a recently found _sidekick._

Nothing could ever be so _different_ yet _similar at the same time._

_So what has ‘he’ got against the two Holmes brothers now? Revenge? Dull!_

_So why was ‘he’ so dissatisfied?_

**Fact: _They were unthreatened._ **

_Comfortably, they have carved up their seats at the top with no equivalent talent to oppose them; crushing the cesspool of criminals with a single stroke of their beautiful minds with Britain their oyster. They’ve changed._

The young one who found place in playing detective, Sherlock, oh _Sherlock_ was the bomb in the crate, the snake in the treasure chest. The _conundrum inside the conundrum._ Uncontrollable and impulsive, _a child with whims and see things only a child would see._ He was not worth a Mycroft, but he was still _something. Oh, yes he was something else._

And he was still curious to see what this little _boy_ could do.

Mycroft’s rise to the top was not unexpected—he was always meant to be at the summit _._ He was the _dragon—_ the real _power_ with his cold, domineering persona; silent and mysterious with equal perfection and elegance to his ever soundless movement and always had something under his sleeves. The prodigy of _manipulation_ with innate craft and mastery of a spider’s natural way of weaving its web and spin around its prey. Deadly and _very thorough._ Yet also naturally aloof and indifferent.

The British Government Head had far cultivated his potential and the silence on _his name_ was _his symbol of power. He was the secret order._ The brilliant _pacifist_ of Great Britain’s overwhelming power.

_Power. Weakness._

There was one weakness with all of this _—_ without the proper exercise to the right opponents though, even the sharpest blade gets _dull._

So **HE** stopped turning a blind eye and started carving for the _brothers_ on his own _._

Was it up to him to send the hurdle— to provide the shard on the floor, the crack on the ever perfect smooth glass?

Like a spectre overlooking his kinsmen who wants them refined— wants them at the height of their game; and at the same time a shadow obsessed to see them finally keel over and beg—

_He didn’t care for them before, but once he did, it turned into an obsession._

If this wasn’t obsession, then what was it?

And what was he to do but send them gifts?

He cannot let them play on forever with all the trumps hidden under their sleeves. All was fair in war.

So he sent them _the deranged genius;_ the Napoleon of crime—the criminal consultant— whose work he sampled on every inch of Europe under his organization. Oh, he was much more than deadly, _he was suicidal_ and he applauded the man for being so. A specialist, or so he admitted, that _Jim Moriarty._

Even a meeting with him was quite entertaining under the moonlight with a dead body between them. Fascinating enough was Moriarty’s awareness of Sherlock’s presence. The _little boy_ had been playing out of his league it seems and Moriarty always replying. It was Mycroft he never knew and it was just like the British head to remain as elusive as ever.

 _Mycroft Holmes,_ he saw Jim repeat the name in awe, like an inexplicable hold of supremacy was contained in the name itself. It was not difficult to convince him to find Mycroft just as _interesting_ however. Still, Moriarty was set on to the younger Holmes  and who could blame him? **_He_ ** could feel the same kind of aura of Moriarty to Sherlock—they were almost two side of the coin. He had one last advice to offer however before letting the atomic bomb loose that piqued the criminal consultant’s attention.

_“Sherlock’s an addict... if he gets addicted to you, you may get the heat of the fire. While Mycroft may not find you as interesting though; he is passionate with his superiority and complete smoothness of suit. He doesn’t waste a glimpse to even the most well known threat. That is Mycroft Holmes’ signature.”_

_“That right? Then I’ll send him my profile.”_ smiled the wicked consulting criminal.

Years later, _Jim Moriarty killed himself._

Normal, yes, but to bring along the news that Sherlock Holmes was the fraud upon his suicide—that in itself was the game. It was Sherlock’s limitation at fault, one he had foreseen with the boy’s unrefined skills.

_Death was but the only choice to those without the power to win._

Mycroft lived and like the apathetic man that he was, not even a glimpse of sadness on his skin. _His true colour?_

He would have laughed at Mycroft; he would have shaken his hand if only he was in the privacy to do so and without the knowledge that this very same _man_ might be his undoing _again_. Then again, he doubted that was the end.

Sherlock’s gift was opened and it exploded to millions of pieces with him. That had always been the plan.

It was time for Mycroft to receive his due.

Thus **, _he_** _sought somebody with the same great intellect, somebody deadly enough to inevitably get on Mycroft’s level._ A person with an almost equal influence and vicious soul _; somebody so power hungry who would climb any walls and barricades just to reach the climax—like a parasite ready to take over the host— a potential leader for one of the world’s greatest clandestine coup—_

_Charles Augustus Magnussen._

All he needed to do was say the right words.

_“I know of a man whom you would give all your secrets just to have.”_

He remembered Magnussen’s cold eyes lit up in delight when he said this. He was just like one of those geniuses— _he craved to meet people that would arouse him— people par with his intellect, seemingly unprecedented and ever made to be defeated._ He was the perfect gift.

A question reflected on his eyes, interest at its height and never was doubt ever passed on his face. He had never heard of _the actual name,_ Magnussen admitted with bitter truth but _he did feel it._ He knew _someone had to be there, hidden in the spirals of the British Government, securely seated at the top and consuming other great powers with flawless ease._ This intelligence behind Britain’s power that seemed to be ever out of his reach; a cold, elusive intelligence that always _hung_ in the air, untouched by any but solid as the ground and potent as any weapon.

Magnussen had been on _this scent_ ever since, for years now but not one could provide what he needed. _All his informants were nothing in comparison with the real supremacy._ He left Britain with distaste after receiving a deadly threat from an unknown source but with the vow to dismantle this secret intelligence once and savour the day he could finally do so.

His unquenchable thirst for information—one he had not experience for many years— was exposed.

_All because of a mysterious, nameless man._

_“The name?”_ Magnussen longed for it, _desired_ it.

And it truly was thrilling, to have to dangle bait to a person such as Magnussen, _the power hunger._ The man whose given talents were used to the last strings—a kind of man he wanted _Mycroft to be._ Sickeningly deadly and _romantic_ to the point of _obsession._ A fixation to control—to manipulate. Just like how Jim Moriarty was with Sherlock, Magnussen was the perfect gift for the British Government head like opposite poles meeting the other and destroying upon collision.

He spoke the name.

The power within it was felt ten times with Magnussen’s reaction. The sophisticated old man savoured it, tasted its words as he repeated it, seemingly enthralled and overwhelmed and almost lost for seconds in celebration of his success. Mycroft’s effect had always been disastrous to those he influences, be it with his name or mere glimpse of his back. Magnussen seemed to think it _adorable._

Yet, it was about time for another stir in running water. Magnussen was preparing for a complete _whirl._

  _“What is it to you?”_ came his curiosity when the informant had stood up from the chair inside his office. America had too early night falls. _“You will not ask of anything?”_

 _“It is a favour.”_ He said with a bit of a charm. _“You take him. If he keeps being untouchable he gets corroded.”_

 _“But with your connection..._ ” Magnussen seemed to want to bait _more. Such a greedy person. “How about I expose you to him? Tell him I know of you...use you against him...”_

 _“You’re making a deal out of a trifle, I am not a weakness.”_ He remarked with a slight humour, _“On the contrary, he might just go ahead and jail you despite your reputation, no questions asked. For treason. It ticks him, see, when I go near him and his brother. What do you think I’m doing here to dry America?”_

_“But surely there has some point to this... to bother to come to my recluse quarters. Is this revenge?”_

_He smiled and walked around the room like a looming figure shrouded in mystery and mischief._

_“It is personal.”_

Magnussen was silent, but he later shook his head.

_“Most amusing. If I am to capture Mycroft Holmes, how sure am I that you won’t interfere and get all the glory?”_

_“Do I seem like a threat to you?”_

_“You knowing Mycroft Holmes is a threat to me already. Or to be precise—I don’t do well with ‘debt’.”_

_“And I know more things about him that will never reach your sacred Appledore, Mr. Magnussen. Believe me. If you want to climb at the top it’s the only window only I can provide. As long as you can show Mycroft the true meaning of warfare with real intelligence of his parity, that will do. If you can provide him that entertainment and over take him, then I will consider this debt paid.”_

He had started walking away but turn just in time to see the old man stand towards his window.

_“One last thing, he always tends to be very indifferent of his social acquaintances. He might not accept your challenge whole heartedly. He might even just let it be. He lacks motivation, except in straightening his tie, you see my dilemma? The laziest of men yet one of the most gifted. How do you pull a guy from such boredom?”_

_“I have my methods.”_

_“And Mycroft has his. If you don’t play your piece together, you might just be another wrinkle in his tie he could easily smoothen. Good luck.”_

He was sure Magnussen had received far more sound _threats,_ but nothing ever so _real._ That could liven up Mycroft for an entire year. Magnussen seemed interested— _he was ready for the hunt._

A year and a half later _even Magnussen proved ineffective._

_Killed, gunned without much as a noise to the public._

Behold what Mycroft could do. _Still true to his means, the British Government’s controller of hidden power._

And still ever at his disposal was the surprising return of _Sherlock Holmes._

 **He** had forgotten how a doting brother Mycroft Holmes had been. **He** always thought Mycroft _incapable._

But here was Sherlock Holmes, once again, the mystery of Mycroft’s _sentiments._

Over the control of supreme power, the heightened intellect, a name with _only_ those who are given the authority to utter and no nonsense— _why Mycroft concerns himself of self destructing Sherlock was a great mystery._

That could only fall under one category of _illogicality— familial love._

 **He** does not remember feeling that—nor having it. And even then when he was already at London where he took the chance of returning upon the great absence of Mycroft Holmes’ ever sharp eyes, he still questions why—

_Why Sherlock Holmes came to Mycroft’s rescue?_

_Another familial love?_ He thought the detective incapable also—Mycroft said so himself before.

So why was he there, attacking the base of the terrorists according to a report he received; why was he there on a getaway vehicle with wounded Mycroft on board even after dozens of guns on their heads? And now—why was he _hiding_ Mycroft? Not that it would last— ** _he_** _had other plans as he made his way back to merry old London._

There was still another way to get Mycroft out of hiding. Sherlock could meddle as long as he could.

Because plotting the abduction of Mycroft from the outskirts of James Moriarty’s suicidal tactic didn’t involve Sherlock going after his older brother— _nor have him interfere at all._ It did not involve Sherlock _thwarting_ plans that were meant solely to corner _Mycroft Holmes—a man too dangerous to still set lose— a man whose intellect he thought would also benefit_ **him.** Isn’t that why he distributed Mycroft’s profile to all the terrorist organization he was affiliated with for delivery? How did he acquire such intelligence on the dark horse?

The secret could no longer be _hidden. It was time to **reveal himself.**_

He was supposed to be waiting there in _that place_ where Mycroft was to be taken. He had arranged it all—to show himself finally to the unsuspecting _British Government Head. Unsuspecting? Maybe he was underestimating Mycroft Holmes..._ but well **he** had stayed in America for far too long—there was little it did to cloud his judgment. When Mycroft sees him, he was expecting a full _rage._ He wanted to see that.

But when the first time he heard Sherlock was out and about to save Mycroft he had thought it amusing that both brothers will be present upon his presentation of himself on the limelight. He had **hidden** himself in the shadows for long. Sherlock may have developed this familial love, so maybe he would also rejoice upon finding his return?

Because who else was he who knows the Holmes brothers better than anyone?

Who else was he with the same prowess of intellect and go head to head with Mycroft?

Who else was he with the capability of endearing well known powerhouses like Moriarty and Magnussen to go battle with the Holmes brothers? He, who was the _catalyst—_

_The Hidden one?_

Who else?

Dear brothers.

_Sherrinford Holmes._

* * *

Two buildings collapsed at central London with ominous dark smokes at the background, too thick and huge that nearly covered the television screen blank for seconds. Ambulance were coming back and forth with a lot of people running away injured, covered in dust—it almost reminded them of the 9/11 attack.

Mycroft hang on the sheet of his bed with round and disbelieving eyes while Sherlock stood his ground with tight jaw and dark eyes move around at everything he sees on the video. John had a helpless look on his gentle eyes.

“They destroyed it...” he whispered with the remote falling off his hands on to the floor.

_“For the latest update, 11 people had been confirmed dead and 50 more counted injured while 3 are still at critical condition at this attack in Central London half an hour ago—” came a male reporter factually, “It is still a question of which terrorist group will claim responsibility of this attack and a lot of people are already asking if this one Mycroft Holmes, who was believed to be taken hostage by militant force, responsible for leaking information that lead to this heinous attack—”_

“Balderdash.” Sherlock grunted as he turned his back from the screen while John lowered down the volume, “I knew your men at the office weren’t doing any good with your public posters.”

He glanced at his brother and found Mycroft white in the face.

“Mycroft—are you okay?” John went to his side slowly but just as his weakness was revealed, Mycroft easily pulled back and frowned at the two friends. Sherlock observed him with heavy eyebrows.

 _“Take me back to London.”_ The older Holmes ordered.

“What—?” the doctor blurted out just as Mycroft pull off the sheet from his feet and started sliding his feet on the floor, “— _wait—! Are you insane? I just stitched your wounds!”_

John placed a firm hand on Mycroft’s shoulder who passed a look at the doctor before looking at his younger brother with a look of complete calm but perspiration on his head.

“Sherlock...” he said quietly while John glared at the detective who was watching the both of them with attention full on his brother. “I can’t stay here. You know I can’t.”

“They are still out there hunting us, brother. I meant to keep you here.”

“We don’t have to engage them.” He insisted with fire slowly igniting in his eyes. “ _Bring me back to London!”_

And in Mycroft’s mind’s eye, he remembered one of the worst memories he ever had—back in that dark alley of numerous warehouse where dark exchange always happens.

That moment where he, and the rest of the CIA operatives, found and proved his eldest brother, _Sherrinford Holmes,_ to be the mastermind behind half the world’s Black Market organizations.

Sherrinford who was the clever tactician suddenly overturned by his next sibling.

And Mycroft never regretted that and it reflected on his face—it was just a few years when Sherlock fell into addiction no thanks to this elder brother who provided the means— _information._

“ _To exile.”_ Mycroft had said with eyes dead and unfeeling as it surveyed Sherrinford who looked anything but pleased.

 _“You don’t think exile will keep me away forever, don’t you, Mycroft?”_ CIA agents have rounded around him and had secured chains on his wrist from behind.

 _“Oh, you will.”_ Mycroft said slowly with a step forward, _“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure to use any means necessary to make you regret you ever came back.”_

 _“Oooh.”_ Sherrinford’s eyes glinted in amusement. _“You hurt me. Weren’t we always thick as thieves, brothermine?”_

The British government’s lips thinned.

_“It was... until you decided to pick on someone I truly care about.”_

_“Ahh... there it is... the favourite little brother?”_

Mycroft’s eyes glinted dark. _“We are meant to protect him, brother. He is only a child.”_

 _“Grow up, Mycroft.”_ Sherrinford was full of glee, _“You know he is a ticking bomb. Why not let him explode?”_

Mycroft would have slapped him— _he was meaning to—truly!_

But his phone suddenly vibrated on his chest that got the British Government head to inhale, especially when upon closer inspection he saw that it was his younger brother. With a glare at Sherrinford, Mycroft turned away.

“What is it?”

 _“Oh, still aggressive in the middle of the night, I see?”_ came Sherlock’s lazy voice, “ _Having a night out? Or let me guess, out on another tinkering of your brain?”_

“What do you want?”

_“Tell me the real reason why I received a glorious amount of garlic on my laboratory table from an ‘unknown’ source? Can’t you be discreet?”_

“It’s for your rack of lamb.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“Your latest case—the garlic sauce? You were looking for poison weren’t you? Garlic sauce is a good means to conceal the odour of opium—too elementary, really—”

_“Can you stop doing that?”_

Mycroft was about to reply when one of the CIA operatives stood beside him and gave him a report.

“The Red Menace has been successfully caught and we’ve cleared the area. We’ll be heading straight to the state, sir. Washington wants news.”

Mycroft eyed the operative with one raised eyebrow before nodding. Sherrinford was pulled but not before the brothers had one last eye contact. Till Sherlock’s voice interrupted loudly from the phone—

_“Ah! You’re working with the CIA now, I see! What’s that, a part time job or on daily basis?”_

“Buzz off, Sherlock. Hang up now.” Without another word, Mycroft ended the call and looked up at his eldest again.

“What’s with that?” Sherrinford raised eyebrows, “You didn’t want to tell our little brother our dramatic turn here?”

“He doesn’t need to know and frankly he wouldn’t be bothered. Don’t compliment yourself, our little brother doesn’t care about _you—_ neither of us, his eldest.  And he hasn’t forgotten what you did to Red Beard so don’t push your luck.”

“Still angry over putting down a dog? Both of you?” he smirked.

Mycroft took a step forward again, this time with his nose almost centimetres away from his eldest. His eyes glazed in ice and blades that threatened to pierce.

_“Don’t ever compare Sherlock’s life to a dog... You and I both know what really happened.”_

Sherrinford had held up his breath as Mycroft whispered this and was only able to breathe once he stepped away with that icy look on his face. But this didn’t seem to faze the eldest who smiled again.

“Are you saying... you’re going to exist just to oppose me?”

“Why do you think I decided to remain in power when I don’t need it?” Mycroft looked at his brother from down and up. “We both know I’m the only one capable of opposing you.”

“Why?”

_“Because I can.”_

Sherrinford smiled. “Interesting, brother. I’ll give this time to you.” He nodded at all the CIA and British Agents around and at his handcuffs, before looking at the British head, _“But remember that when I come back it will be during your weakest and I will not hesitate to strike. Leave your throne once and you’ll find me at the top. I’ll make London your very own Ground Zero, brother dear!”_

* * *

_**Catalyst** _

* * *

* **Thanks for reading! ;D**

 


	9. Sabotage

On a different time, Sherlock would have said the attack on _London_ was because he left the city. That Scotland Yard had lacked his support and that his absence _causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes._

But it didn't seem to be the case on this one. It was something _bigger_ than he imagined. His _mind palace_ hadn't been idle; he knew a thread of a game when he sees one, especially when one so _under his nose._

_Anyone paying attention would have noticed—_ that _calculated abduction_ in the forest of fire; that _unsolved distribution_ s of the supposedly nonexistent profile on the internet that toppled different governments' axis; that endless emergence and chase of not only the _militants_ but even the soldiers themselves. And now that _massive attack_ on the capital right on cue as if overtly knowing there was no one on top to defend it— _all telling of unforeseen scheme that raises signal of a formidable plot._

Sherlock had longed confirmed his suspicion of a dark, ominous presence surrounding and _closing in_ on his older brother from the moment he found out Mycroft's alive. And _no_ , he wasn't referring to Mycroft's natural dark character that normally irate the younger brother nor his straightforward _be-damned_ power complex attitude that Sherlock suspected to be a way to show off his invisible enemies what he can do, _not really._

But Sherlock's mind palace had built up Mycroft in a picture walking towards death's door while _a dark hooded figure with scythe_ was also right behind him. It was Sherlock's literal interpretation of his older brother's situation unfolding. To go back to London now would mean facing one way or the other but either way the veil of death that had nearly swallowed Mycroft was threatening to open again. Sherlock _cringed_ at the prospect.

_He had lost his brother once..._ it kept repeating on his head unconsciously.

This played on Sherlock's mind as he watched his brother shrewdly from his corner while he sat on one of the comfortable chairs of the dark room. Mycroft had been on the phone for the last five minutes calling who he deemed to be 'helpful' assets to their current situation and making little progress which was all over the older Holmes' eyebrows as Sherlock continued observing his many _elusive words._

_"The threat is real."_ Mycroft had said before turning away with his back at them to which Sherlock narrowed his eyes. It was not before he heard the older Holmes throw words like _'camera', 'operation', 'prevent', 'tower of London'_ and _'uncle'_ minutes ago that got Sherlock smirking at how exponential their meanings could be just because Mycroft said them.

That was the thing with his brother; _he was always more than meets the eye._

_"I want full surveillance."_ Mycroft was heard again as he turned his back from the metal rod of his IV drip after a few hushed whispers while John and Sherlock sat just across the room, _"No, just the report. I'll be there in the next twelve hours—make that eight. Tell nothing to the Prime Minister at the moment. Do not trust anyone—not even anyone at the MOD."_

John leaned towards Sherlock's chair without warning. "Can you count the number of people he _actually_ trusts?"

The younger Holmes shrugged off. " _He'll cut you a few fingers."_

John chuckled and shook his head.

"How does he work in an environment where he doesn't trust people?"

"They're _government_ people. _He's not supposed to."_

"So he runs the government by...?"

_"I don't know—his umbrella?"_

"What— _to_ _poke people_ —?" John's face cracked into another grin—

"To whack the _moles more like."_ Sherlock chuckled and both friends ended up laughing just in time for the detective to see his brother give them a glare, apparently multi tasking with his ears on the other end of his phone.

"No, no that would be a _nuisance_. It would not help much than it should _._ " Mycroft's frown towards the two made John and Sherlock straighten their expressions and sit up. "I understand the situation but I'd rather they remain unaware of my whereabouts. It's too _risky_."

He eyed the two men again who were both hanging for his words. He raised his eyebrows after awhile and for a moment he was overwhelmed by a complete silence that even got Sherlock staring at his brother intently, as if trying to read the words from his expression.

" _That will not do."_ The older Holmes' face turned grim as he lowered his eyes on the floor. "I wouldn't have it either way, Minister. You keep your eyes on the city and I'll keep mine on my back. No, no—do not be hasty; I'll take care of the borders, that's all. If _they_ could _infiltrate_ from there, there's no reason why I also couldn't. Anyway, I have my _younger brother_ with me. That should be an assurance."

Sherlock's eyes glinted and he was in all attention when his brother hung up the phone.

" _You were talking to the Defence Secretary?"_

John's eyes widened and he too shot the British head a look while Mycroft took his time in letting one of his eyebrows rise up amidst a curt lines.

_"Yes, of course."_

"Then why does it seem like even _he_ can't do anything about our position?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because he can't afford to lose focus at the moment, not when London's in high alert status." The British government head walked around the bed looking tired.

"Did you tell them about the double agents with the soldiers they sent?"

"I did. They are looking over the matter but it will take time given the current attack in London. We've been anticipating something like this since, well... _Paris_. _Operation Strong Tower_ will be on the go right after this attack. Nobody's stopping the NCA in protecting the civilians—they were supposed to be ready for one, two, to three attacks but because of the sudden turn of the government, NCA must be furious and with casualties already tolling at the moment I don't think they need persuasion _to tighten securities. Especially at the borders."_

He looked up at them meaningfully, catching Sherlock frowning while the doctor looked from one Holmes to the other.

And the detective understood _that look._

"The borders." He repeated with eyes slightly widening. "They're going to bolt down the borders, tighten securities, and allow no one to enter without proper order."

"Precisely that. _Northern Ireland_ has been on the watch list of MI5 as a potential security threat to the nation." Mycroft placed a hand on his wrist holding the attached IV. "It's like a backdoor for terrorist cell who can come and go as they please since it's not securely monitored... like a blind spot... well, till this moment _not anymore._ The Whitehall has issued the closing of the border and no refugees shall be accepted. We have been having problems with refugees turning out not as innocent as they seem after all."

"I don't understand—" John suddenly found his voice that made the Holmes brothers to turn in his direction, "So what if they close the borders? We're British citizens, of course they'll let us in?"

"It's not a matter of _getting in."_ Sherlock shook his head, "It's a matter of _who lets us."_

"What?"

"It's all a mess up there, _good lord_ what have they been doing?" Mycroft refused to say another word as he sighed impatiently while John stared at him in confusion.

"Sherlock, what—?"

"The real question is _why—why_ the terrorists decided to attack London now?" The detective finally gazed at the doctor to lay the facts his mind palace had identified— "And right after we _hid_ ourselves? It's too coincidental—no— _it's not abstract—it's a cause-effect._ They wanted the borders closed from the beginning to trap us here—or if we try to cross borders they'd immediately have the chance to seize us if we reveal ourselves. That is of course, if our hidden enemy from the government is the one scheming for this."

"No question about that." Mycroft confirmed.

John stared at the Holmes brothers in disbelief.

_"But we're British citizens!"_ he insisted, making the two to stare at him quietly.

"So sorry, John." Mycroft said after awhile as he wriggled his free IV wrist and Sherlock noticed the end of the IV syringe left on the bed forgotten, "It doesn't work that way. If what we think is true, _and you know better than to doubt it,_ then the attack was a deliberate attempt to seal our only entrance to the borders. Seal it or use it to expose our identity to people _who will be expecting us._ "

"But those lives—?"

Sherlock shook his head, making John utter a curse.

"And what about this MOD guy you were just talking to?" the doctor abruptly added disregarding the authority of his former military chief, "What about the Prime Minister? I thought you're important to them?"

"In the lights of the recent events—you've heard of the new Prime Minister, haven't you? And then the terror attack _,_ I don't think I would want to be on the way of their duties. The Defence Secretary had already sent his troupes here with Carruthers if you remember. Adding more would be decreasing the nation's defence by half. And with the British soldiers around here unrecognizing of one of their own leaders, I don't think it necessary to divert the MOD from their real purpose. Of course, the Secretary doesn't know I'm the actual reason London is attacked. Telling him that would be _... stupid_ of me."

"In short," Sherlock's eyes flickered magnificently to his brother, " _we're on our own."_

"Yes." Mycroft agreed nonchalantly with a fake smile, "It would seem so."

The doctor stared at the two with his usual expression of incredulity— _like once again he was the only one to realise the magnitude of the situation._

"So we don' have an escape route— _we're trapped_?" he stated the obvious—

" _On our own_ , John, not _trapped._ There's a difference. _"_ Mycroft's voice never faltered at the prospect of peril. _"_ Of course there's always a way—" and he eyed his younger brother pointedly.

Sherlock knew that was coming.

"Their _cause-effect_ scheme would be useless if _we don't go back,_ Mycroft." It was a simple answer.

" _Yes_ —and thereby inviting them to attack even further to make a point— _no_ , I'm not willing to sacrifice any more civilians just to prove them wrong."

"And you care for the civilians because...?"

"Sherlock." It was John who raised his tone with a glare at his friend while Mycroft refused to answer directly.

"We need an escape route, Sherlock— _I need to go back—_ " he began, making the detective's ears bristle —

"To ' _go back'_ involves _sneaking on the borders, but before hand sneaking out to Belfast route and sneaking pass our pursuers!"_

" _Fun, isn't it?"_ The glow on Mycroft's face was _all too sardonic._ Sherlock hadn't and would never forget the last time Mycroft had said _'fun'_ on their encounter at the forest. It didn't end well when the older Holmes defined it so.

"That's dangerous waters for you again, brother." He whispered in deep voice with eyes dark.

"But isn't that _your usual play ground, brothermine? Sneaking around?"_

"You make it sound so bad."

"I was aiming for _dreadful._ Fine, then I'll lead the way."

"What do you know about this part of land?" Sherlock asked testily while John crossed his arms.

" _You'd be surprised."_

"We're not playing around, Mycroft—!" the detective gritted his teeth feeling vexed yet again at the stubbornness of that idiot _head._ "The _smartest idea_ is to stay while the dangers pass—"

_"It won't pass."_

A long pause—

And Sherlock fell silent as he believed Mycroft with the way how he had given him a mysterious look. It was not dark, his pupils were too contracted with his face covered with sudden powerful coldness— an atmosphere the older Holmes don't usually exhibit except—

"You're not telling me something." The detective breathed with a step forward.

_"I don't tell you anything."_ Mycroft pointed quietly with eyes severe, "But I will tell you this: this danger will not pass until it has taken hold of what it aims to take down. You don't need to worry about me alone; _worry about the world as we know it._ Unless we take measure and face it _prepared, we're going to fall_. Staying here will only prolong the _agony_. Besides, _we're not really the type to hide away from threats, are we?"_

Sherlock's eyes flickered.

"No."

"Then what are we waiting for? Do we require the information board? Do I provide maps—?"

"Out of question—I know just the road. I've seen the Belfast map of Newtownbreda provided by _google earth_ with complete road lines I've already memorized by heart while you were resting. Sneaking pass a park forest a mile here and even to the nearest meadows would be something I would call extra _covert._ It's a piece of cake."

Sherlock suddenly saw Mycroft's eyes twinkle with a smile that made the detective frown and narrow his eyes.

Wait a second...

_Oh, he was had._

"Damn you." Sherlock glowered as he took his phone out and messaged Roylott.

"What just happened?" John blinked.

"He does always fall for that." The older Holmes smirked, "The challenge."

"Shut up." Sherlock grudgingly called Roylott and turned his back away from the two with a part of his mind still numb at how easily Mycroft could always _make him change his mind._ The older Holmes always had this uncanny ability to make what he wants to happen _sound thrilling and unlawful and fun to chase._

At the same time _curious._

_But who was Mycroft wary of?_ The question rolled in Sherlock's mind.

"I still don't understand." The doctor broke his silence when Sherlock seemed to have fallen into one of his silent reverie. Taking the opportunity, John spoke directly to Mycroft.

"After all this time you still didn't?" Mycroft had raised a threatening eyebrow that had usually made _goldfishes_ swim away; but John may have been a fish but not just any kind—

"Yeah, I don't get why you know everything and still hide important facts from us when you know we're your only ally."

That came out as a surprise and Mycroft's jaw tightened visibly.

_"Ally is a strong word."_

"Want to call us 'family', then? You mind?"

_"Bravo, John."_

Sherlock smirked proudly at his best friend while his older brother rolled his eyes.

"Doctor, how could you make your patient suffer such _headache?_ " Mycroft said with a turn on the bed and a touch on his stomach, "Please just remove these dressings and patch me up again, will you? I need proper fixing for the long way."

"I can fix everything but nothing can do about your _stubbornness_ when I keep telling you— _stop moving around!"_

The detective watched the doctor attend to his older brother and silently put the new bricks on his clay. John may have had a point about Mycroft always keeping secrets but _he's not entirely correct._ Mycroft who had always had that brow of shrouded mystery that had become him with _his secrets he plans to take to the grave._ To ask him directly—to open him up forcefully was like trying to tell the ground to crack with a threat of volcanoes to erupt.

_'Treason'_ was his brother's favourite word too every time they go on collision about each other's daily jobs. That was probably why Sherlock hated having Mycroft around sometimes— _his brother was the walking omniscience who oozes of information he elects not to tell; keeping all classifieds temptingly inside Pandora's Box while he, Sherlock, was the boy itching to axe it—_

Oh, how he hated Mycroft.

It wasn't _old scores_ they needed to settle, _he never came close._

It was Mycroft who was always steps ahead and _if ever_ there were times Sherlock truly believed he had overtaken his brother, there was always a hanging suspicion and later confirmation that Mycroft had seen it coming anyway but either got bored or preoccupied by his own business to continue playing—thus even if the younger brother silently applauded the ingenuity of his _superior brother_ and even so far as acknowledged him with a title _'Of course he's my older brother'_ to those privileged enough to hear it, Sherlock was still reluctant to play _nice._

Because this 'older brother' had secrets even he, Sherlock, would never hear even at the cost of _anyone's life,_ not even the man himself who was said to be the _British Government's intelligence._ The kind of secrets the likes of Irene Adler love to have and would even make _Charles Augustus Magnussen_ turn inside his grave.

But why must one Mycroft Holmes carry such burden if he was so lazy?

_Obviously... because he created them._

_He was the secret compound—_ the man behind all surreptitious and confidentialities, _and also_ was one of the world's finest living _contradictions—with his silly 'disadvantageous caring'_ and _'over busy legworks'—_ Mycroft Holmes.

The detective pressed his lips quietly and followed the trail of Mycroft's clothing John threw carelessly on the bed. Dark seemed to be his brother's colour these days.

"Knock him out, John; I'll go out for awhile." The younger Holmes turned his back from the doctor and his patient.

_"Where are you going?"_ Mycroft half turned with a frown— but John cut him off—

"Can I do that?" there was a hopeful tone there.

_"You do know I can hear you?"_ Mycroft's voice issued exasperation just as Sherlock reached the doorway and handle the knob. Turning he glanced at John in a matter of fact tone.

"Did it before, didn't end well. Had to kill a guy as compensation." He closed the door behind him but not before catching John shooting him a look of complete surprise as he too remembered that fateful _Christmas adventure._

Sherlock walked into the pathway of the door into the greyish sky with a glare. The street was empty even at the middle of the day but he could just make out TV screen lights by window curtains across the street. The suburban was quiet and almost isolated. Just the spot for _hiding._ Unfortunately his older brother didn't seem particularly interested with the idea. But then didn't Sherlock made it clear too— _they were there only to recuperate and of course— attack later._

Why was Mycroft in a hurry? Obviously _something else was going on._

Sherlock took his phone out with clenched jaw when he saw the reply of his _networks_ and started typing away. There was no helping his stupid brother when it comes to securing plans with only him alone as the player. So Sherlock got to act _on his own_ too, like the usual.

_Stupid brother._

With less the _Big Ben_ , he sent his messages to all his _networks._ They were his thread to London, they know better than anyone the who's and the what's of its every corner. _Knew how the bombing even occurred and now he was receiving reports._ It won't take half a day for him to figure out what to do next once they were out of the sinking ship which was Northern Ireland.

And make sure none of them sinks with it again.

* * *

_"Am I here to satisfy your insatiable curiosities, I wasn't told."_

Sherlock heard Mycroft's sarcastic tone say the moment he returned to the flat after half an hour.

"Don't be cranky." The doctor responded undeterred when any normal human beings hearing would cower under such tone from the British Government Head. "It would do you a load good if you just stop being so damn _secretive_ when you know your life hangs with it."

"If I wasn't like this you'd find a _change in history._ " Mycroft offered with a meaningful smile.

It made John pause and shook his head in the end as he kept the medical supplies safely inside the blue medical box and headed for Sherlock as he carried it out.

" _You better believe him_." The detective muttered when they walked past each other.

" _Why do you always say that—yeah I know."_ John muttered back and walked away.

Mycroft was already standing without his IV drip when Sherlock reached him and it was particularly noticeable how the white gauze was wrapped like vest around his body. Clearly John wasn't taking chances.

"Gained weight?"

"Your _friend_ seemed to think it necessary to wrap me up like spring rolls. _That_ or he was taking me _personally._ Even the pain killers were useless to his endless chatter."

"You sound almost cheerful."

"Is this cheerful? I'm not aware—"

"And too calm despite our situation. You have a backup plan don't you?"

" _Just where do you get your ideas?"_

"You talk a lot."

"And you disappear _a lot. What have you been doing?"_

In response, Sherlock handed him the black paper bag he had been carrying. Mycroft took it and glanced inside. With an eyebrow rising, he nodded blankly.

"Well, no complaints here." The older Holmes glanced up when Sherlock remained quiet. They silently looked at each other and words outdo them.

"Roylott called. He's on his way here from the local force." The detective went on with his older brother in full attention. "He received a word that the British soldiers with Carruthers' body were already in Belfast, debriefed and rounded up by the Police Federation with Commissioner Bradstreet. They'll be of assistance to us within the next hour."

He paused and Mycroft filled the silence with another arc of eyebrow, encouraging Sherlock not to stop.

"He had no words of your Turkish friend. Roylott sent eyes across the old Belfast road and saw none."

"We don't need to wait for them, we still need to hurry. I want to be in London in the next eight hours."

"John's already preparing, you better change." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What's with you and this Turkish people anyway? What do they want?"

"What they want is clear, but what they _wanted to happen_ while chasing after me was more evident." Mycroft looked smartly down at his brother. "I have prevented the latter."

"What do you mean?"

"I've contacted the Turkish President while we were at the medical tent. Told him to be wary because a possibility of _coup d'état_ was on his way what with his soldiers prancing about me. Serςe and his men were soldiers, didn't you notice?"

Sherlock nodded as he pictured the tattoos of the militants when the car light washed them of brightness.

"The overthrow was unsuccessful with the help of Turkish citizens. MOD told me." The British government head went on as he straightened, "Europe has just evaded another _change_ in history."

"Then why still chase you?"

Mycroft was about to turn away when the question pulled him back. He granted Sherlock an arc of knowing eyebrow.

"Why shouldn't they?" he smiled finally and turned with the black paper bag at hand.

Sherlock's deadpan eyes narrowed as he followed his brother, _thinking._ Stripped of his powers and acting like a fugitive, with no backup plan whatsoever and meeting adversaries head on—his brother Mycroft was handling the situation quite steadily. Not that he thought Mycroft to be one to panic—the impressiveness of his self discipline was thoroughly commendable. And his sudden taste for risk _alarming._

So it goes without saying... _there really is a plot going on and Mycroft knows it from the core._

A kind of _plot_ he, Sherlock, had always been on the lookout for; like a hunting hound up on scent and ready to track—except that there was a big obstacle on the way—keeping him from the final whiff that would put the puzzle together- _dear old brother Mycroft._

_Such the spoilsport._

Whatever it was, Sherlock was sure he would _get_ there be it by hints or by wrecking havoc. Mycroft will not deal with this on his own because little brother Sherlock will _never let his brother play his way while he, baby brother, stay behind._

And if ever Mycroft insists on being the scrooge, he Sherlock vows to act like the usual him—plot or whatnot _he will_ _sabotage everything._

And it goes the other way around to the perpetrator of his older brother's predicament.

Such were the thoughts on the detective's mind as he waited for his brother to come out from the washroom. He saw John come in the doorway from the corner of his eyes and then heard his phone ring exactly as Mycroft emerged from the washroom wearing a neat dark pants and coat suit with a white collared undershirt. Less with a neck tie, it was still notable how the older Holmes could carry himself.

"You look like a loose bank manager." John commented that only made Mycroft smile into a grimace.

"Charming."

"Yes? Roylott?" Sherlock answered his phone and listened attentively. Only, no voice came. Added to that was the sudden hanging up of the phone with a snap. Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared at his own phone.

"What?" Mycroft asked as he walked towards his brother and Sherlock noticed that even though he washed his face, the red marks of his bruises were still as clear as daylight. "The Assistant Commissioner?"

" _Dead."_ Sherlock looked at his phone and exchanged looks with his brother while John's mouth hung open. "He didn't answer, he wasn't there. A man breathed on the phone and faint sounds of crying people at the background... a sound of bell tower..."

Mycroft's alarmed face glowed as he fixed his brother a look.

_"Eyes on Northern Ireland."_ The older Holmes breathed and his face paled yet again as Sherlock's mind's eye travelled back to that lone tower near the Institution for the Blind, hence the name.

"My god..." John was quick to understand dire lives at stake, " _they've taken over the place?"_

"They must've have followed Roylott—" Sherlock crossed the floor in few strides and was already spying on the window curtains with a severe expression, "We can't stay—they're near."

"What about those people!" the doctor injected with a determined look in his suddenly fiery face.

"They won't be harmed—if they're lucky—they're blind, John, they won't be killed if they don't see anything—"

" _You know that's not my point!"_

"No, we don't have time—"

" _Time!? People are dying—!"_

_"JOHN!"_ Sherlock rounded aggressively towards his friend with eyes in frenzy, _"We cannot worry about them— they're after us—they want my brother with the two of us DEAD! We cannot save everybody!"_

_"That's exactly it!"_ John was hot on Sherlock as they faced each other, _"We're the ones they want dead and now other people are dying because of us—!"_

_"Because we are in a war!"_ Sherlock's eyes glinted with fire, " _And you know better than anyone that there are casualties_ —"

John's face paled as he took a step closer to the detective and spoke very quietly, "Yes... I know better than anyone the importance of lives... _and you know that too."_

Sherlock's face turned white too as he stared his friend in the eye. Silence fell in the room that was once again filled by Mycroft Holmes' brisk yet too quiet voice and they found him already talking on his phone.

" _Priority Alpha disengaged."_ He said on the line while Sherlock and John breathed at each other's face whilst hearing the older Holmes. "Civilian quarter takes precedence, same location of Beechill Road, Berkley CT. Eyes on Northern Ireland is the target."

Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the doctor to look up at his brother who sighed as he hung up his phone and slid it inside his chest pocket.

"There goes our escape plan." He said with a grave look on his eyes but his businesslike manner was not unfamiliar to the two. It was obvious. The British government head has taken command. "I had made contact with Carruthers' MI5 men before this and planned to use them as our support in case we get really cornered. Their priority was to get us out of here but given the circumstances— _others needed the service more than us."_

John stared at Mycroft with eyes dilating while Sherlock clenched his jaw. No wonder his brother was calm. He knew there was a backup plan but then...

"Seems like my plan just got sabotaged." Mycroft went on with eyebrows rising to heaven as if reading Sherlock's mind. " _Now we really are on our own."_

John and Sherlock didn't say a word as the older Holmes straightened and walked towards them. His walk was steady despite the many injuries hidden under his clothes and not a trace of pain on his ever unreadable expression. But then there was a sudden cloud on his clear bright eyes just as he slipped past the two—

"All deaths are on me." He whispered with a sudden glint in his eyes, his tone ever so solemn. _"Settle this."_

And Mycroft Holmes walked out of the door, leaving John and Sherlock staring at the air he left behind.

Minutes later, their car was out on the road in high speed, leaving nothing but a trail of dust to the empty street with the hope that no more deaths will be added on their wake.

At least, Sherlock could think of one or two _deaths_ he would never _let happen._

And on to the borders, _to battle once again._

* * *

**_Sabotage_ **

* * *

_~To be continued~_

_**Awesome readers, THANK YOU FOR REACHING THIS CHAPTER! :)** _


	10. Slip

A black tinted car rolled on the highway of London with ease, its windows reflected the distorted buildings of the capital. It silently glided on the roadway, stopping every now and then for traffic lights and even police officers signalling for a halt to let people cross by. Then it went and continued to move on, pass several other patrolling officers in gears and arms, apparently ready for _battle._

This was London in high alert. This was the London he wanted to overpower and doing so only required a particular person _bowing down to him. An appealing thought._ That person who thought he had no more equal, bless him _. Who else?_

Sherrinford's deadlock eyes gleamed inside the black car as he watched every street corner. Even gloomy London felt home after several years abroad. Maybe he would visit his parents who seemed to have forgotten his existence.

But that could wait later. For now he was still engaged in dealing with his _adorable_ little brothers who _time and again_ had escaped his most ruthless of plans just because they were together... or _better yet_ because for some reason, Mycroft had sensed _his presence_ and was on the counter. _What a fool._

_He would have been much more useful if the Russian spies had taken hold of him._ That way, he, Sherrinford's rein could go even further to Moscow. What a disappointment Mycroft had become.

His phone rang. The messaged he received from the other end was enough to make him raise his eyes straight.

"Don't be a fool. They will not disappear without a trace. Find them. Take care of everyone else but make sure to keep them where they are now. Don't let them return to London. That would damage the deal. If everything turns south, send my little brother the message."

He hung up without even waiting for the response, his eyes narrowing.

It was just as he had expected from his brothers _._ A possibility he had seen many times. Truth be told finding them back in central London in the next three hours seemed almost likely.

Well, _that can be rearranged._

And his car stopped on the sidewalk, in front of a middle-aged woman who had just come out of a black door carrying a dustpan and broomstick. Sherrinford rolled the car window down and eyed her, thinking how she could clean despite looking less sober.

And the woman looked at him curiously with her large eyes narrowing into slits. Her eyesight was poor.

"Good day." He began with his soothingly languid voice. _"May I know if this is 221B Baker Street and where I might find Sherlock Holmes? I am his eldest brother, see."_

* * *

_Mycroft could be such a pain when he means to,_ John Watson mused, _and most of the time he could be just as astonishing as his brother—hands down._

There were few things that impressed John— _Sherlock being on the top list_ — which usually involves the scent of danger. And Mycroft Holmes pulling his phone out to contact his associates to save hostages in brink of death just became one of them.

John was still feeling a little prickle as he drove the car on and would never have left Beechill with the knowledge of innocent people taken hostage by the terrorist group hunting them. _Eyes of Northern Ireland,_ the institution for the blind, was just around the corner from Beechill Street as he remembered Sherlock pointing it out. If in fact Roylott was caught there then it was a terrible mistake. To sacrifice innocent people just because they happen to be there was something the doctor would never have agreed with. He could understand Sherlock's desperation to make his older brother a priority but John's _conscience_ was heavier than any of his emotions—

_Sherlock could be single-minded sometimes._

The doctor drove the car north in speed, all the while giving his passengers furtive looks. Sherlock was beside him in the front seat while Mycroft had the backseat all to himself. The Holmes brothers were on their silent reverie, both eyes looking but unseeing: clear signs of people falling on their mind palaces _—_

_And god knows what they could be seeing now._ It could be a universe in there.

John suddenly remembered the first time he met _Sherlock_ and could swear it was just as bad as his first meeting with _Mycroft._ John Watson wasn't a fan of the older Holmes the first time they met—not after all those threatening security cameras and mysterious phone calls.

_It was a dark business._

Then came the dark figure into the light—a man whose eyes had that sharpness of expression which was very remarkable and intimidating. _An epitome of true mystery and darkness._ But it was the way he spoke of Sherlock Holmes that caught John curious. And now that he thought of it, it was really Mycroft who made John's impression of Sherlock much more intriguing— _a consulting detective with an arch enemy!_ Just how many people have arch enemies? And somebody against _someone like that?_

_It was like light versus dark—and John already knew who was on the side of the light._

But then to find the greatest surprise in the end—that the two were actually _blood brothers. How could he not see?_ But then _how could he?_ It was impossible to see the semblance when one was too audacious and the other discreet.

_Talk about brothers making lasting impressions._

But then he did notice it— _their eyes._ They were one and the same. Only, Mycroft's eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that faraway, introspective look which John had only observed in Sherlock's when the detective was exerting his _full powers._

He never questioned who _was better._ Even Sherlock would agree albeit grudgingly to the exact _truth._

_"Modesty's not one of my virtues."_ Sherlock had said shortly and dropped the subject at that.

_Mycroft was his superior._

Meeting the brothers was his _defining moment_ and as Mycroft had been so cunning enough to point out— _the war, he misses it._ But it didn't stop him thinking how Mycroft was still a jerk. Yet, his _loyalty_ to his country and sometimes to his younger brother was still _admirable_ and at the same time _gruelling_. _Ever lied on someone in the face about how your best mate was actually alive during those two years over fish and chips?_

_Ice man._

John pressed his lips tight and looked at the rear view mirror towards the man he had been musing on. Mycroft had his eyes closed. The very same man who had just used his last means of safety just to save a great number of people who didn't mean anything to him.

_There, right there was respectable._

If only the British Government Head would stop _acting like a complete mental machine and stop threatening people with his presence—_ he would really be appealing to others.

_Oh wait..._ That was exactly the problem with _Sherlock._

_These Holmes brothers._

Sherlock suddenly bolted backwards to the driver's surprised and nudged his brother's shoulder that made Mycroft open his eyes. The older Holmes found Sherlock leaning at him curiously from the passenger's seat with that glaze of concern that seemed to ever stay on his eyes this year.

"What is it?" Mycroft frowned as he sat straight with John watching over the two. It hadn't been ten minutes since they left Beechill when they became aware of their pursuer's threatening presence. Looking at the rear view mirror, John was pretty sure Mycroft was still feeling a little under the weather— _that_ —or something else in his mind palace was making him look _sick._

"You're perspiring." Sherlock told him in a matter of fact and dead tone, "Getting cold feet with the plan?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he reached for a blue handkerchief on his coat and wiped his face.

"It's too late for that." He said with a look towards the road. "And I _never get cold feet._ "

Sherlock smirked. "Good. Because we're nearly there."

True enough, John pulled their car past signages that included _Belfast Main_ among others and recognized the same street color and decorations by the walls. _Murals_ they call it with names of people and faces of political figures local and abroad— republicans and loyalists all vandalized around.

Entering the city suddenly felt like a trap already. John travelled his wary eyes around.

"Right turn, John." Sherlock said quietly and the doctor did so. Sherlock had always been their _human gps._ Looking ahead they saw the Belfast city hospital. John's first instinct was to stop there as any good doctor would not care who are enemies and allies.

"We avoided the Old Belfast road a couple of times and went around Stranmillis towards the city." The detective was explaining as he checked his phone, all the while his older brother scanned the small number of people walking around the sidewalks. "It shouldn't take us that long if we keep avoiding the main road. We'll reach the border soon."

"We might as well avoid the hospital." Mycroft suggested with a nod at the building. "If they're aware that some of us need medical attention that's the first place they'll be setting people at."

John paused at the logic while Sherlock stared at the hospital and nodded. John turned left without a word.

"This border we're talking about," the doctor then said after a moment as he manoeuvred the wheel with eyes on the side mirrors and then front again, "what exactly is this? Am I supposed to expect something like in Afghanistan...? Like defending the line of camps? Soldiers barricade in arms?"

"Soldiers will be plentiful yes, armed to the teeth but more so." the older Holmes replied quietly with a sigh, "you'll see."

John frowned just as Sherlock turned to him.

"We're aiming for the Central Station. That's the border we're looking for. We're going to have to secure a passage to one of the ferry heading to Cairnryan Station and head back to London—"

"A ferry?" the doctor followed the detective's gesture and turned the car. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Only if you can't swim." Sherlock smirked at the rear view mirror. "Mycroft sure can't. Nearly drowned at a pool when we were kids."

" _That was uncalled for_."The older Holmes said with a raised eyebrow. "But my secretary says she is being monitored so she cannot do anything to help. At least, I forbid her so. Right now she's dealing with another business that if left unattended can be very destructive."

"So we don't have helicopters." John translated easily, making Sherlock smirk.

"Anyways, the MI6 helicopters we used to get here are crossed out since they backed up Roylott's situation at the Eyes of Northern Ireland, thanks to my brother— (Mycroft rolled his eyes)— and Commissioner Bradstreet's team should either be on the way towards the terrorists' location or somewhere else they needed to be because they still haven't made contact."

The doctor frowned at the detective. "Where do you think Bradstreet is?"

"No idea."

"You think he's a double agent?"

Mycroft and Sherlock both didn't react until the detective suddenly reached a hand on the doctor's arm. The reason became apparent when on their next turn towards what was supposed to be Belfast main road and station, came the view of a number of people walking forward a single direction.

John glanced at Sherlock who didn't look back but nodded at him to continue.

He drove to the next corner—but wasn't able to make any more progress when there in front of the cars they saw a large group of people gathered on the road and walking forth, adding to the traffic with vehicles blowing their horns aloud, creating disturbance and shouts from the aggravated crowd that had been trying to push towards the station.

"What the..." John said with his jaw dropping open, eyes on the thick barricade of moving people and pollution.

"The queen must've waved her hand." Sherlock muttered that garnered a raise of eyebrow from his older brother.

"Or?" Mycroft pointed at the sign atop the mass of people where the Central's station was supposedly hanging.

It read, ' _Northern Ireland Border Control: You are now leaving Belfast, please have all documents ready.'_

"Seems like we're not the only one who wants to slip away." The doctor pulled the car over the right side from Sherlock's suggestion and the three watched the people make their way through. It was just like a rally where people come for the same purpose but not for each other's sake. John didn't remember this much people when they came to Belfast around three days ago.

"Is this still a trap?" he asked his best friend.

"Could be part of it." Sherlock suddenly opened the car door without a word and went out—

"Sherlock—" John called out while Mycroft's eyes followed his brother with a frown—only to see the detective jump up to the roof of the vehicle to have a better view. He came down minutes later and shut the door close fast behind him.

"British soldiers in front with a completely controlled line a few distance before the station gate, all armed with shields and helmet gears, vests and sticks—did I mention a helicopter at the parking lot? It's an all out war and against us."

"Sneaking is not an option anymore." Mycroft observed.

"Why these many?" John started—

" _Brexit."_ The older Holmes said briskly as he leaned his back on his seat with a serious look. "The EU with Britain and United States are the main ground of peace for Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland. With Brexit, peace is now in _peril_ around these parts again. It was never peaceful here until late 1998, with the so called _Troubles_ —just look at the wall graffiti and murals; it will give you the idea."

"I get that part fine." John muttered as he looked at the murals on the walls.

Mycroft continued, "Northern Ireland _does not want_ to be removed from EU when they get benefitted from the union. There's also the factor of its soil brother _Republic of Northern Ireland_ still part of it, the division of the two grows even _further_. Borders upon borders will be blocked, soldiers upon soldiers will be dispatched and endless search and inspections will happen from now again because _Northern Ireland_ is part of United Kingdom. There are also those refugees and terrorists hiding amongst them."

"Just another fence at your peculiar day." Sherlock said without a glance at his older.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. _"This is what happens when you pull me out of office."_

John and Sherlock silently agreed to that.

"Although I have heard the Queen already plans to grant release to Northern Ireland—" the British government head caught himself late and closed his mouth, eyes on both John and Sherlock whose eyes were all on him too.

He smiled. _"You don't need to know about that yet."_

"Okay," John said with a sigh as he looked outside again. "So we're in the middle of a siege because of _Brexit_ and the attack on London. No wonder terrorists here run amok—all chaps and caps are busy trying to make sense to people. Is it a _coincidence_ that they brought you here specifically?" he looked Mycroft in the eye who returned his gaze quite impassively.

"Coincidence is what unimaginative people would call it, John."

John threw his best friend a dark look. "Please tell me he didn't call me 'stupid'?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in betrayal. John cursed.

_"_ So now you're siding with your brother?"

"I don't side with anyone but myself."

_"_ Right. He just _slipped about the queen's plan_ and you're not baiting on it."

"His way of saying _'I told you so'_ in the future. _Power complex_ , my brother."

"I noticed." The doctor murmured.

_"Change subject?"_ Mycroft said sharply that caused a chuckle to both the doctor and the detective.

"So why don't we just tap these soldiers and tell them we're London citizens?" John went on again as he also travelled his eyes outside the car. "I was a _soldier—_ that should be simple. They'll let us in."

"Of course they'll let us in, and like telling them 'come and get us', John." Sherlock's eyes were all on the people around. "And who knows how many people here are terrorist already... with this group of people another _attack_ may just happen."

"You think?" a worried brow crossed over the doctor's face.

" _Balance of probability."_ Mycroft said from behind them.

"So what do we do?" John looked at both the Holmes brothers.

"What we planned to." Sherlock's eyes flickered as he suddenly reached a hand at the car's glove compartment and pulled out three baseball caps and handed them to the other two who blinked at the object. Sherlock then put his hat on the top of his curly hair and grinned looking pleased.

" _Stealth mode."_

Mycroft groaned.

* * *

The next moment found the three already walking on the pavement with their caps securely putting off any recognition and walked with the crowd with eyes alert and vigilant. Mycroft grudgingly moved about with Sherlock right beside him as John lead the way.

_"I look ridiculous."_ The doctor heard the older Holmes whisper as the brothers walked side by side.

"You look fine." Sherlock soothed coolly.

_"This is not the meaning of stealth mode._ Having to wear something so irregular to my dark attire—"

" _Men who wear dark suit look more suspicious, Mycroft."_ Sherlock said as they now mingled with moving people around and tried not hit his shoulder blades to others, "Now if you would just stop thinking everything works around your Bond spy guy and really try to merge. That's one of the arts of concealment, brother. _Blend in."_

"A middle aged man wearing a—"

"Nobody cares what you look like now, honestly Mycroft." John waited for a woman to cross his path before walking on.

_"I do."_ Mycroft sounded offended that made John shake his head.

" _Quiet."_ The detective put an end to the discussion and the doctor saw him narrow his eyes to the eight or so men walking around them. "Eyes open, Mycroft. I can see six armed men in civilian clothes already and four of them not police nor any authoritative personnel."

The doctor followed Sherlock's eyes and saw the men. They looked normal to him.

_"Rebels?"_ Mycroft looked around with a placid face and raised his eyes to where Sherlock was while John shot the Holmes brothers a ludicrous look. "I can only perceive three. The other one is an old soldier, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyes and frowned at where his brother was looking. The unknown men would glance over their shoulder or sideward every now and then, giving the brothers time to see their faces.

Sherlock clicked his tongue.

"Fine, _three it is_. That old soldier's recently just discharge and is still wearing his ammunition boots—"

"That's why you thought him a rebel—?" Mycroft smirked that made Sherlock narrow his eyes at his mistake.

"Yes, and because he's from the artillery with the way he wears his hat—"

"You're slipping— he's a non-commissioned officer—you can see the lighter skin on his brow and his weight is against his being a sapper. He's from India with that sunbaked skin of his with bearings and expression and authority almost the same with John's. No, _not a rebel, Sherlock."_

By that time, John Watson had given up and had sighed as he walked forward—but not before he heard the detective say. "Let's stay clear from them."

"Better tell John or he won't sidestep them."

John heard him fine but was still surprised when Sherlock caught up with him.

"What?" the doctor asked with eyes on the men.

"Planning to leap at them like some sort of hero?" the detective was smirking.

"You think I'd jump them?"

"I know you, John." Sherlock turned behind him, "While Mycroft's playing deduction—"

He paused and it was clear why— his brother not there. The crowd had thickened on the side of the street and there was no Mycroft Holmes to be seen around. The detective took a few steps back with eyes scanning the area quickly—

"Mycroft?" he called out and rounded on the spot—John realising what was happening also immediately looked around for any sign of the older Holmes. There was none. The flow of people coming around them multiplied—and they also began pushing the detective and the doctor back who were only one of those few people trying to fight the current— _and still there was no sign of Mycroft to be seen._

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stopped dead on the spot with his head turning from left to right. John stood beside him and when it was clear that the detective was planning to run back, he placed a firm grip on the detective's shoulder—afraid that he might lose his friend in the wave of people too.

When it was clear that they won't be finding the older brother any time soon, Sherlock's body tensed.

_"No..."_ John suddenly heard Sherlock say and the doctor was sure the younger Holmes would have lounged forward in the middle of the rushing crowd if he momentarily lost his grip—but he kept the detective at bay with a forceful hold on his clothes—

"Sherlock—wait—"

" _We need to find him!"_

"I know but—"

_"Damn it."_

John and Sherlock whirled behind them and saw Mycroft emerge from the moving crowd with a curt frown and displeased look on his face. "Don't these people know where to walk? Are we in some sort of a parade? I nearly got knocked out by their sheer push—didn't they see me stand there like a log—what are they _, a herd of sheep_?"

John loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and gave the older Holmes a look. He then turned and saw Sherlock watch his brother who made his way towards them with knitted eyebrows as he fixed the cuff of his sleeves. Mycroft looked somewhat impatient as he looked up with raised eyebrows to his brother.

_"That's why I don't like crowded places."_ The older Holmes declared with some certainty. _"Or people in general."_

Sherlock didn't respond except to nod ahead and let his brother walk in front of him.

But then John saw _that_. Sherlock's hand around his brother's shoulder. It made him smile thoughtfully.

If Mycroft had only been as observant as he prides himself to be, he would have noticed how Sherlock's slip of emotions he rarely showed people. John used to think Sherlock _loathes_ his brother. Well, it's been a long time and looking at them now...

_No._ There was no _hate_ there. There was no trace of that in Sherlock at all.

_If only Mycroft would look._

"John—" there was sudden crisp of cold tone in the detective's voice—

The doctor looked up to see the detective looking far behind them with eyes wide. Looking back, John saw what he saw—a gang of men pushing their way through the thick crowd with their eyes searching—and right in the middle of them was the same Turkish man whose dark clothes, hair and still pale complexion still familiar to the doctor's eyes.

" _It's them!"_ John hadn't finished saying it when he felt his best friend shove him forward with his brother.

Mycroft didn't need any more push as Sherlock got ahead of him and before long was half dragging his brother along the dense crowd with John right behind them. They neared towards the barricade of the British army but another line of people were still trying to push their way through. None of them could find a space to past through—there was only one line directly accommodated by the British troupe and that queue was a mile to go—

Only, Sherlock cut past them that caused angry retorts and demands from the confused crowd— making the detective pause for awhile as he looked from left to right as if making a decision. Mycroft seemingly following his train of thoughts immediately shook his head—

"Sherlock—"

"We need to get these people out here or they'll be in the middle of crossfire. We're desperate brother—"

"What is it?" the doctor looked from one brother to another—the next thing he knew Sherlock inhaled—

_"Get out of the way!"_ he bellowed long and loud, " _BOMB!"_

Not a second passed— _and mass panic ensued._ The crowd dispersed almost like water in a drain—running in different directions, bumping to each other blindly, almost hurting each other. The detective paved the way with brute strength, followed by Mycroft whose jaw was clenched while John brought up the rear.

The next thing, British troupes were flowing out of the gate, calming the civilians down with the wave of their arms and guns while the detective and the other two try to reach them—

"I thought this is stealth mode?" the doctor pointed out as he looked from left to right. "They could have hurt themselves!" he threw a reproachful look towards the detective.

"Half of them are not going to pass thru the gate anyways," Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone as he scanned the crowd for specific _friends_ that were after them. "They don't have proper papers or passage identities."

"And we're one to talk?" they crisscrossed a few more civilians.

" _We have a plan."_ Sherlock dodged a large man who bumped to him—

"You mean another change of plan?" Mycroft raised his observant eyes on the bulky man who walked pass them, "This is what happens when everything lies on _odds and chance_. Nickname of my brother, by the way."

_"Humour at the wrong end."_ Sherlock muttered distracted as he looked down his hand before raising his eyes on the nearing gate where the British soldiers were stationed. "That's more like it... come and join the fray."

The _fray_ he so called suddenly began without their notice as the next thing John knew—somebody had knocked him over the middle and threw him on the ground, his shoulder hitting the ground painfully but like any of his automatic response— he got up and gutted the man, whom he recognized to be one of the rebels they were eyeing awhile ago— around the stomach—making his fist sting and try to find more landing skins.

There were other violent movements around that made the doctor compress his lips and knocked another attacker who was reaching Mycroft— but then saw his best friend's attackers too with guns—

_"Sherlock!"_ he called before seeing two more men assail the detective from behind. Sherlock was quick to respond with his fist and efficient quick dodges, his legs were in synch in battle too. Mycroft on the other hand stood rigid on his spot and it was clear why— _he was held on a gun point by one of the British officers who came to see what the commotion was about._

Sherlock managed to knock down his enemies and was already watching the officers who now went around them in number. Mycroft stood his ground without a hint of fear in his glinting eyes and tight jaw. John stared at the gun with all intent other than surrender.

"You're making a mistake." The older Holmes said as he then removed his cap to reveal himself, _"I think you know who I am."_

The impression he made was full of mystery as the British soldiers all began lowering their guns.

John gave Mycroft an awed look while Sherlock warily eyed the soldiers.

"It's alright." The British government head said to the two with some assurance. " _They are from the Royal Air Force._ ' _He'_ must've sent them."

"Sir." One of the high ranking officers suddenly stood in front of Mycroft with a salute and sure enough, John noticed his rank badge and the recognition of Royal Air Force on it, "The Chief wants you in contact after rescue. It would be better to do so when you clear this area. He has been expecting you."

He handed him a phone. Mycroft took it and glanced up with a short nod. He then turned to Sherlock and John and with one quick look over their conditions, motioned them to follow him. The three entered the gates with the British soldiers their escorts. It was the funniest feeling John had in the past days.

Them now _welcomed_ rather than _chased and pursued._ How people's mind change sometimes.

And Mycroft was on the phone at once.

_"Harry."_ He breathed a sigh of relief as they settled inside the helicopter Sherlock saw earlier with the two exactly opposite him. _"Thank you."_

John looked outside the helicopter and saw the British unit all assembling in front of the gates with the men they caught in the middle of the violence in cuffs. The doctor reached a hand to his stomach and felt a slight pain there. Frowning to himself, he looked back at Mycroft who was quietly listening on the phone with his eyes closed and furrowed brows.

Seeing it as the moment of their victory, the doctor sighed in relief too.

That was when he looked over Sherlock but what he saw surprised him. Sherlock was pale for some reason and it wasn't because he had suffered any injury—John had made sure of that before they boarded the air craft—

_No_ , it was because of the slip of paper in his hand that he got from who knows where.

Looking over the detective's shoulder with a frown, John silently read on—

_Stay or Die._

_-Sherrinford._

" _East wind..."_ Sherlock suddenly muttered with eyes widening as the helicopter came to life.

* * *

**_Slip_ **

* * *

_~To be continued~_

**It's coming to get you ;)**

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	11. Detour

_The East wind is coming..._

"Sherlock?"

The detective opened his eyes as he heard his friend's voice call to him.

Focusing, he found himself still seated by the helicopter's chair with noises of aircrafts in the background and John Watson watching him who stood leaning by.

"You okay?" John asked with furrowed brows, his ever kind eyes full of concern. "We've landed."

Sherlock took one glance outside his window and then shot a look at the chair opposite him where he last saw his brother sitting now _empty._

And Sherlock shot up like he was electrified that nearly knocked the doctor as he stood up, eyes glancing around the open door and jumping down. A whirl from his mind palace reminded him of that _empty chair_ back in Baker Street where his brother had sneaked in his memory while playing _dead—_

He scanned the military base high and low from the high covered ceiling to the different jets and other aircrafts stowed around inside a very large compound—to the different military personnel walking around until his eyes finally fell on the familiar individual with his back on him while talking to ranked officer meters away.

Eyes narrowing, he marched towards Mycroft with John right behind him. He hadn't taken many steps when the detective spun around to face his friend and nearly collided with him again—

"Stop doing that—" John breathed crossly.

"Don't mention anything about the note earlier." Sherlock started quietly.

"Why?" John's eyes narrowed. "That note doesn't seem like a hoax to me."

"Because it isn't." The detective's eyes never left his friend's. "Something big is coming, John. It's something I'm very familiar with but will still be unable to stop it. Don't mention it to Mycroft, not yet. We'll wait and see."

"So he knows about this Sherrinford too?"

"Central figure."

"But _who is he?"_

Sherlock stared at his friend, seemingly lost for a moment then— tried casually to throw the words out—

_"Our eldest brother."_

John's face dropped.

" _What_!?" he cried just as Sherlock headed straight to his brother again. When the message seemed to sink in, he ran after the detective quickly. _"Sherlock—_ when you said 'eldest brother'—"

"It's exactly that—"

"W-where'd he come from?!"

"No idea—"

"What do you mean no idea— _he's your brother!"_

" _What_ —you think I know where Mycroft is most of the time?"

 _"Oh, yes, you do—_ I know you have your networks following him around London _every time—_ just like with me— _I ought to know, I read your messages before—because you were using my phone!"_ He added in defence when Sherlock threw him a dirty look.

"And you'll also know that half of them are caught in half a day."

"Well, that's Mycroft for you. But this other guy—where'd he come from and why's _he threatening you when he's supposed to be your brother?"_

"Runs in the family."

_"Sherlock—"_

"He jumped out of nowhere, that's for sure." With eyes glinting forward, the detective quickened his pace, "And if I haven't seen this slip with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it. Mycroft's been keeping personal things, I see."

"You're making it sound like he came back from the grave." The doctor remarked as he shook his head, "What'd he do this entire time? Hide in the countryside like a squire? Hide from many wives? He can't be an international criminal or something?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened that made John's eyes widen and throw a look forward to Mycroft, his face all contorted—

 _"Jesus—!"_ he began again with mouth gaping open. "What the hell's with you and your brothers... as if one isn't enough already!"

When no humour came on the detective's face, the doctor's flabbergasted expression turned sour.

"Go ask Mycroft _—"_

_"No."_

_"No?! Sherlock this is both your problem!"_

"That's what I'd like to think but I don't know about my brother." Sherlock suddenly had that conflicted glint in his eyes and went on, "I'll give Mycroft a chance to spit it out— or I can surprise him, but dealing with our eldest isn't like shooting a fish in a barrel. And Mycroft. You don't know Mycroft _—"_

_"Oh, I think I've had my fair share, thank you."_

"—when it comes to our eldest _he's always been a beast."_

"You're making me nervous."

"Really? I thought you'd be thrilled—Mycroft sent our eldest brother to jail."

Poor John had lost all his expression saved a _dumbfounded_ look _._

 _"Your eldest brother is that bad?"_ he then hissed in disbelief that only made the detective raise an eyebrow.

"He's pure evil genius that one... his return? Doesn't bode well for the youngsters."

"What— _vendetta?"_

 _"Too dramatic."_ Sherlock muttered, "No, it means he's paying attention to us again by sending that note—what does it mean? _It means he's been monitoring our movements since Belfast—and worst case scenario he's got a helping hand on those events._ It's not beyond him."

"Don't tell me he's got something to do with Mycroft's abduction?"

Sherlock now paused this time as he glanced back at his friend with a severe expression.

_"That barely touched the surface."_

John stared at the detective quietly who moved on with hands on his pockets.

 _"But what does he want?"_ the doctor blurted next as he followed again—

Sherlock's eyes flickered.

_"Blood."_

John's expression was reproachful.

"Now act natural. Don't say a word." Sherlock advised last as he glanced down at his scowling friend, "Ah, yes that's natural." They reached Mycroft's back who glanced behind him with all eyebrows up, before looking back at the Commander and nodding his head.

"Report what you find."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." And the commander exited with a curt nod.

Mycroft turned to the two a little slowly. Sherlock and John looked back at him still frowning.

"Looks like you're back to full power." The detective began casually with a little compression of lips.

"Looks like you've finally decided to _talk."_ Mycroft observantly said as he surveyed his brother, "You were uncharacteristically silent during the travel I thought _you must've wanted to say something but was holding back."_

He raised questioning eyes at the detective that made John bit his lip and for Sherlock to glower—Mycroft sure knows how to read his brother like the back of his hand.

Sherlock pressed his lips.

"What are your plans now?"

"That's a broad question—naturally I'll need to sort out all the entangled mess left by these colossal events. It won't take awhile." Mycroft sighed as he looked around the vicinity and then back to his brother. There was some seriousness in his eyes as he and Sherlock exchanged looks. "There will be some dark business about but you shouldn't concern yourself about it anymore brothermine. Your duty to the country has already been acknowledged—"

"I didn't do it for the country." Sherlock snapped sharply that made the older Holmes smile—and it could be the trick of the light but this smile was different than his usual sarcastic one.

_It was warm and pleased._

_"I know."_ He nodded and cleared his throat quick, the blank slate dead pan emotion returning to his face, eyebrow rose. "So I'll be relieving you of your duties and send you back to Baker Street at once where _you can finally rest at peace now that your brother's alright_. I'll take it from here—"

_"Nope."_

Mycroft's eyebrow raised another notch with his chin slowly rising too.

"No?" he tones up testily. "I already prepared a separate transportation to send you both back—"

"Why are you in a hurry to get rid of me?" The younger Holmes looked sullenly at his brother who blinked back.

"I'm not really—"

"We're coming, Mycroft." John cleared his throat and had to bear with the sharp look the older Holmes gave him.

_"For goodness sake—"_

"I want to see this to the end." Sherlock didn't blink, his glinting eyes directed at his older brother. "There are many questions still unanswered in this play. And you know how I love playing _your games._ "

Mycroft's face darkened. "There isn't a game."

"Then _why are you still playing?"_ The detective's face clouded as he took a step forward.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"Fine..." he said as if uncertain, "there is still this case about the government official I need to _fry out_ anyway."

John flinched at the term.

Sherlock gave a nod. "I know the guy."

"But I hardly need help just to catch a small fish." The older Holmes suddenly pressed his fake smile. _"Why don't you just take a rest?_ "

"Ergo back to the first argument. _I don't need rest."_ he added with gritted teeth.

The British Government head painstakingly gave a long pause almost making the two slowly feel the gravity of his refusal when both parties know it was futile.

"If we're speaking of resting, why don't you try some?" John's faithful doctor side put out.

The older Holmes gave the man his favourite eyebrow _, "I can hardly wait._ But there are things that should take precedence. Sleeping on it wouldn't be the wiser choice."

"Then can we just go and crack on again?" John meddled again as he nodded his head to a black sedan that just glided its way inside the military base. "I have a wife and child to babysit you know." And he marched towards the car, leaving the two brothers still standing face to face with Mycroft eyeing his brother narrowly.

"You're getting carried away, brothermine. Do you plan to tag along everywhere I go now? Normally you try to be discreet when you send _your people_ to follow me around."

"Because of your _oversight_." Sherlock's lips thinned as he shoved past his brother with his right hand closed into a fist, crumpling the slip of paper he had been aching to shove under his older brother's face but was also adamant in his own way.

 _"Oversight?"_ Mycroft repeated the words hotly as he followed his brother with his eyes looking offended. "What are you—?"

Sherlock whirled around in blatant agitation.

"Spit it out— _someone else is here—something is going on!"_

Mycroft was frowning now.

"Well..." he began with some mystery, "What do you think it is?"

And Sherlock knew his brother was not planning to let him know whatsoever.

Big mistake. It's not like Sherrinford will play the rules like Mycroft anyways.

 _If he was not willing to share, then it was up to Sherlock to wreck the stone cold wall again._ He was not meant to abide any rules not when they were in danger.

The detective walked away after one final look.

" _Absolutely no idea_."

* * *

A man hurried along the corridor of the large Parliament Office in quick strides with face in a split grin of _victory_.

_He just heard the most exciting news of his career._

That one— the Ministry of Defence Secretary, Right Honourable—was under question by the new _Prime Minister_ after the subsequent events of terrorism in the country: the terror attack in London and Mycroft Holmes' _publicly announced abduction and_ _betrayal._ Word has it the man had given Britain away to the terrorist that had sent plenty of countries and different organizations to raise alarms and view Britain as a treacherous entity. There was even one rumour that included a closed door meeting with different embassies claiming that this Mycroft Holmes was part of the _terrorist cells_ from the beginning and was _really a spy._

_Mycroft Holmes, the mole in the Britain government._

It spread like wildfire.

But that wasn't why he was excited and triumphant. Yes, he had always _wanted to destroy Mycroft Holmes' reputation._ Nobody should be able to control the government like he did. _At least, not him._ He was just one of those clever blokes who see the government as a medium of power while the likes of him crumble under their loyal scrutiny.

But what else is there to worry? Mr. Holmes' name had no more value to the current government and wherever he was in his ill-fated trials in Northern Ireland, _dead or alive,_ it was already impossible for him to undo the damaged that had been done.

Oh, how he wanted to shriek and laugh and celebrate more.

Then there was this other news that was his haven _—_ that a prospect _new Secretary of Defence was to be named if the Right Honourable's not able to defend his futility._ Didn't he just receive summon from the office of the Prime Minister? Why else would they call him?

A snicker had escaped his lips but first he needed to make a short detour to his office.

_Might as well highlight his proficiency to the Minister._

He quickly opened the door and shut it with a snap without bothering to turn on the lights. It was the middle of the afternoon and the parliament was quite hot with only the curtain drapes blocking the light. He didn't bother pulling them off either and navigated his way to his very familiar quarters and went straight to his desk where his laptop was and opened his drawer.

He pulled a few papers and continued searching till finally he found one document he was looking for. Taking it up, he closed the drawer of his desk and straightened, eyes transfixed on the file and was about to leave when something on his desk caught his eye.

A tiny _blue box_ on top of his shut laptop.

The man paused at length that turned into a confused scowl as he slowly reached for the box. Then like it was a natural thing to do he opened it even though he knew it would be empty _._

_It wasn't._

A piece of paper greeted his eyes and the content made him gasp and drop the box on the floor as if he was electrocuted. He stared at the paper on the floor in horror for there written on it was _his computer password._

Looking up quickly to his laptop, the man threw himself on his chair and turned it on—half expecting it to show his regular sky blue main frame with his unlogged account on it—

Again, _it wasn't._

Instead it opened up dialogue window after window that contained videos of what he recognized to be CCT recordings of his recent encounters with _people_ he _thought_ he had erased to all _CCTV main hold._ He saw photos of himself too and his house, the photo of his own office and his meetings with the cabinet members, secretaries and other individuals _he shouldn't be caught meeting._ On another folder there were recordings and playing one he realised... _it was his tapped phone calls._

Unnerved, the man let go of his keyboards and sat straight with perspiration on his face, his eyes looking wild and his breathing irregular. Then with a flicker of his eyes, he grabbed his laptop and clicked on till he erased all the data—

"You don't really think erasing data would make it irretrievable, do you?"

A deep voice said from one corner of his quarter that made him quickly look up, alert to the sudden presence of an intruder. And the man's eyes fell on a shadow whose eyes glinted in the dark like blades hidden in the shadows, sharp and daunting with his voice lucid and grave.

The man slowly stood up with horror etched on his face, followed by a fierce look—

"Who are you? How did you get in?"

"Let's not bore ourselves with the obvious. _I think you know who I am._ " He revealed himself and once he did, the man by the desk uttered a curse for it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. "I've been following you for half an hour now—"

" _I—I didn't see anyone—"_

"That's what you should expect when _I_ follow you." Sherlock said easily, his dark eyes unblinking, making the man swallow hard in confusion.

 _"And why are you following me?_ I could have you arrested for _trespass and harassment_!" barked the angry man agitatedly with fist closed, his eyes flaring but the detective merely shrugged.

"Sure do that. Save me the trouble of showing them half the incriminating evidence against you—which oh—by the way, _isn't the only copy."_

_"Why you—"_

"Not so smart, are you?" Sherlock a pressed a _devious smile_ that made the man watch him apprehensively.

"W-what do you want? If you want money..." the man went on as he shut his laptop close like doing so would lessen his exposure only—Sherlock merely glanced at the laptop without any reaction.

"I don't want anything from you, _Mr. Undersecretary_." Sherlock then said and the man straightened up, his old face shown, his suit wrinkled as he crouched by his chair, his watery pale blue eyes looking weak as ever. The man whom Sherlock had met a week ago inside Anthea's office who had come barging in and demanding for the situation of _Mycroft Holmes_ be stamped at once— _all part of his ploy._

The Undersecretary of the Ministry of Defence was muted unlike their previous encounter. Sherlock smirked as he stepped forward.

"Although there is that _curious case of your ring which I'd really like to explore._ "

The Undersecretary unconsciously reached a hand on his ring, his eyes widening that only made Sherlock smile even more as he stepped forward again, his eyes not leaving his _prey_ and the glinting gem on the man's ring hand as he remembered it all too well.

"Such an exceptional gem you have—and not just any rare gem—but the world's _rarest and most beautiful gemstone_."

He took another step forward that made the old man slunk at the back of his table, eyes wavering at the detective whose eyes glinted.

"When we first met I said it was _given to you by a man during a celebration_. What sort of celebration could it be when another man gives a ring to another?My first impression was infidelity but no— _you bore the mark of a doting father and you fear your wife._ So it was not out of _sentiment_ that it was given to you— _it was a trade. Now what could possibly compel another person to trade such an item—the symbol of power and desirability, a Zultanite?"_

Sherlock paused long, a smile of triumph almost touching his lips.

"And to a person who holds such a title as you... what could they possibly _want_ from you? The answer was simple. You as the Undersecretary of Defence— _they want your power to manipulate soldiers in the shadow—to control from this side of battle while their target goes in circles, isolated and left to his fate._ That was your bargain. But you were actually killing two birds with one stone once _Mycroft Holmes was taken out of the picture."_

A long pause that seemed to be filled with intensity.

 _"It was you."_ Sherlock finished with a deep sigh, all to control himself as he surveyed his object of resentment.

"I— _I don't know what the blazes you're talking about."_ the Undersecretary's voice faltered as he saw the look on the detective's face.

"Then would it be a coincidence," Sherlock's face glowered further and his eyes flashed dangerously, "that this stone you wear is only mined in one particular country... the world's only source and depositor... _Turkey?_ "

The Undersecretary shook his head, eyes wide.

"That so happens to be worn by the same man chasing my brother to death's end." The detective's mind's eye remembered Serςe as he gazed at the gemstone. An unexplainable dislike came to his face as Sherlock looked up at the old man again. "But it hardly matters now _._ He's already safe and having a word with the Prime Minister about your mischief. _You didn't think they would really summon you to replace the Secretary of Defence, did you?"_

"W-what...?"

The room door opened and John came in, followed by a number of the Secret Service in dark suits.

Sherlock watched the Undersecretary's hands fall down on his sides helplessly with that magnificent jewel on his possession still not losing its beauty despite being in the wrong hands. Not even when the same hands wore handcuff bracelets.

Sherlock and John stood side by side as he was taken away with his laptop confiscated and the Secret Service made a thorough clean up on his things.

"Not one ready to bite anymore, is he?" the doctor muttered as he crossed his arms and looked at the Undersecretary being taken away.

"All bark no bite." Sherlock replied and looked at the doctor. "Where's Mycroft?"

"With the Prime Minister... an hour ago." John added thoughtfully.

* * *

 _"Hello, little brother."_ Mycroft's voice said coolly on his phone while inside his dark sedan now wearing his favourite dark three-piece-suit, blue neck tie with a tight clip in the middle, a purple handkerchief and of course, his pocket watch _—he was geared for battle_. "I'm assuming you have wrapped up the business with the small fry? Such minor character doesn't need us both worked up on his case. An hour should have sufficed, I should think."

 _"Where are you?"_ came his younger brother's edgy voice that made Mycroft press a smile.

"Stop it, _brothermine._ Am I under your protective custody now?"

 _"Consider it free of charge."_ There was sarcasm there.

"I'm surprised you didn't realise about the _zultanite_ when you first met him." Mycroft's casual, mocking tone was typical when a change of topic was necessary. "And I thought it would even _ring a bell._ "

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you know? Turkish gem distributors advise against purchasing Zultanite in Turkey because locals tend to counterfeit it so most of the gemstone found there is cut and sold around North and South America. Also, if you look long enough to trace it, you'll find _Zultanite_ is one of the feature stones of one shop in United States... one particularly interesting one is called _Moriarty's Gem Art._ Such a _chance_ , isn't it? _"_

Silence followed and the older Holmes could just imagine his younger brother's expression.

"I'll trace that back. Now _where are you?"_

Mycroft licked his lips. _Such persistence._

"I had a detour and am now heading to the palace... there are some things I needed to handle personally. You should return now to your flat. I've already arranged the transportation. You _didn't really expect me to_ _let you tag along, did you?_ "

"And you didn't really expect me to agree."

Mycroft smiled briefly. "Off my call then—"

 _"Mycroft,"_ Came Sherlock's voice again and it was just discernible how bothered he was _._ "You're too _transparent._ What are you not telling me?"

The British government head looked outside his window with a short pause, eyes darkening suddenly.

 _"What aren't you?"_ he threw back.

_"Mycroft!"_

"Be careful, brothermine." The older Holmes finally heaved a sigh and looked down his hand to a note he was holding. _"Please."_

And he hung up.

* * *

Sherlock gritted his teeth as his brother cut the line and agitatedly texted several of his networks as he and John once again stood outside the Parliament with a dark limo car waiting for them.

Mycroft saying what he just said _never promise well._

 _"You idiot."_ He muttered in vexation.

"Why does he always like to disappear?" the doctor muttered as he played with his phone he had just finished using to call Mary. "Your brother's death will be _by_ disappearing."

The detective raised a knowing eyebrow as he glanced at John who was oscillating on the spot before shifting his eyes back to his phone.

"Unlike him to die otherwise."

"You talking about him dying..." the doctor smirked. "You must be pretty annoyed. Why? Cause he didn't let you join tag?"

"You should go home, John."

"What? And leave you with this mess—?"

"I'm going back to Baker Street." The detective suddenly turned to his heels and started walking on the pavement with John running after him.

"Why so sudden? I thought your brothers—?"

"There's nothing I can do if Mycroft's keeping me in the dark." Sherlock said rather heatedly as he turned to his friend. "I've got to do something else—something both my idiotic brothers won't expect—"

"And that's..." John raised an eyebrow, " _to behave yourself in your flat?"_

Sherlock pointed at the dark car waiting for them.

"Take the car and go meet Mary. I'll contact you when I need help."

"Ah, no—"

"There' nothing we can do here John, not when Mycroft's blocking all information." He said in annoyance that made the doctor blink.

"You're really going back to Baker Street?"

"Sure." Sherlock was already walking away with a wave of his hand.

"Sherlock!"

But the dark haired man has already shut himself inside a cab and off towards the street of his flat, leaving John staring after the vehicle and sighing.

* * *

When the detective came to 221B Baker Street around, he knew at once that something was not right.

Upon his first step on the hall, his frown was ever so deep as he noticed the floor... _too clean._ And it wasn't anything like the cleaning of his land lady. Shaking his head and following the bits of traces, he looked over to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen then took the steps ascending to his room.

The traces of _infiltration_ did not stop at the hallway. _It began on his very room._

Sherlock opened his door unto the silent flat he had left for a week cautiously. He proceeded inside with glance at every direction and even his rooms. He knew he could not rely on dusts much to his chagrin because Mrs. Hudson was a tidy keeper with cleaning techniques like chopping off hieroglyphs of Egyptian stones, leaving nothing for Egyptologists to read. He had told the landlady to touch nothing _absolutely nothing_ of his possession but still—with his absence the landlady must've felt the impulse to do so _._ Plus his skull was missing again— _he always knew she had something against his old pal._

Still feeling that something was off, the detective looked around the room with eyes monitoring the parts he knew to be touched without his permission— from the pillows, magazines, books, his _tidy kitchenette,_ to the rug on the floor.

_And finally his eyes fell on his jack-knife stuck on his fireside's mantelpiece. That did it. Mrs. Hudson never touches his jack-knife._

There was no question now that _someone else came_ in the room as he pulled it and scanned the contents of the small articles and papers he kept but found nothing uncharacteristic. Almost throwing the papers to the unlit fireside, Sherlock's eyes fell on the stone ledge and saw _carved_ on it using his jack-knife was the word _skulls._

Sherlock quickly looked up to the side of the table where he was keeping his skull which was no longer there—the exact moment that he heard the mounting steps of Mrs. Hudson—

"Sherlock, I knew you were—" she began with a _Speedy's_ cup of coffee—

"Where's the skull?" he interrupted with a turn to her.

"Why's everybody looking for that _skull?"_ Mrs. Hudson looked at him blankly and shook her head.

 _"Who's 'everybody'? Who's been here?"_ Sherlock pressed on.

"Why— _your brothers._ I was really surprised you know—they just came here today. _"_ She went chatty as she placed her cup on the kitchen table. "If you had told me there'd be a reunion—"

Sherlock's ears rang as he slowly looked down at her.

"What did you say?"

The land lady blinked up. "Reunion, dear— _haven't you done it before?_ "

 _"No—you said 'brothers'."_ The detective turned to the mantelpiece with eyes unseeing, his mind palace at its fastest. With a step forward, he looked around and quickly faced the land lady again—almost knocking her with his sudden vigour—

"What happened here? _Did Mycroft—?_ "

" _Happened_ —?" she looked at him in alarm, "I don't know— _Mycroft_ came here an hour ago with lots of other men and they just began cleaning everything like they were looking for something. But I couldn't complain—I mean he's your brother after all— _and they were tidying everything up—"_

"Did he say anything?"

"Well... I asked if he wanted tea but he didn't listen."

" _Mrs. Hudson!"_

" _Oh! N_ ow that you mention it, it's really weird how he's asking about your eldest brother. Did they make an appointment here and missed each other? Your eldest came here early morning."

Sherlock shut his ears and jumped to his mind palace— _and everything fell to its place— that Mycroft knew their eldest had been to 221B and intentionally kept his younger brother away from the flat while acting as if he didn't want the detective around so he distracted him with the case of the government official—then went detour and cleaned everything after—but it didn't change the fact that their eldest—Sherrinford tried to make a direct contact with him and even went as far as visiting his flat when he knew full well Mycroft has eyes in 221b—which would make the visit deliberate— which would make the message on the skull too obvious—but Sherrinford was smart—he would meticulously leave one to Mycroft if it was to send him to another scent- and another-_

The detective suddenly opened his eyes and stared at the empty spot where his singular _skull_ used to be in.

"The skull..." he muttered, eyes wide.

"Mycroft said that too and took a note on that mantelpiece." Mrs. Hudson shrugged that confirmed the detective's suspicion— _but Mycroft missed something. Another oversight!_

The next thing—he had thrown himself to his wall where he was keeping his map of London with photos and threads of his rats and location of his networks. Shoving them all away—he found the _photo_ he had been looking for.

"Skull _s."_ he breathed meaningfully to the blue portrait of a skull hanging by the wall that was also an ambiguous trick of a young woman in front of a mirror. And still, _another skull._

That was when Sherlock saw it— _another paper—_ one of his coloured postings in fact and on it written not by his hands was one of the clues of the game the detective knew was far from ending.

_Come collect your skull. Jubilee's eye of the millennium._

_-Sherrinford_

* * *

_**Detour** _

* * *

_~To be continued~_

"There's a lot of me this year."- _Mark Gatiss about his character ;)_

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	12. Terminal

_"Follow Sherlock."_ He said on his phone briefly before hanging up.

His face half hidden in the dark, eyes lifeless and lips tight into a line, Mycroft Holmes flipped the _piece of paper_ in his hand with an unusual vehemence while his other hand felt his phone. It hadn't been fifteen minutes ago when he had hung up on his younger brother who was demanding his _whereabouts—_ fifteen minutes later he now had people keeping an eye on his brother's movements who reportedly just came bolting out of 221B moments ago because as Mycroft had expected— _brother Sherrinford had made contact with their youngest brother._

_And no, he wasn't calm._

Approximately two and a half hours ago since his return every single event that had been disarrayed in the government political wise, economic wise and decision-making wise had been influenced by him. _Two hours was quite enough._ The only thing too handful for him of course was the reappearance of his eldest brother, _Sherrinford._

Whether Sherlock knew about Sherrinford beforehand or not was no longer of importance. Why Sherrinford even appeared at 221B was no mystery at all. The only mystery Mycroft found upon ransacking Sherlock's flat was the appearance of this _single paper—_ a _catastrophe_ he hadn't expected that even made him leave Sherlock on his own devices as he went to confirm his deplorable mistake.

Mycroft closed his eyes and _succumbed_ to his _mind to find answers._

_If it was true...the paper... then it would tip the scale even further. And the result?_

_Terminal._

Mycroft sighed and felt more exhausted than ever—much more than when he was on the run away from his terrorist pursuers. The idea that his younger brother was now on the trail of their eldest was another thing he was upset about. Sherrinford would not let himself be found unless he means to and Sherlock on the lookout meant the red light was raised— _that Sherrinford managed to enthral Sherlock again with a game so irresistible and so dangerous that could result to anything permanently destructive._

The British government's patience thinned.

He had warned Sherrinford... _he had made it clear..._

Once their eldest brother stepped that boundary and set things in motion, Mycroft knew his eldest was aiming for the collateral damage. It matters not who win or lose—only who _survives_. The game was afoot and if not preceded with caution... further actions would lead to _sacrifices... even deaths._

And Sherlock... _Oh, Sherlock._

_"Do you think there's something wrong with us?"_

Sherlock once asked him this and Mycroft gave his answer _not to establish his indifference to emotion,_ but to warn his brother of what could be in _their_ future _..._ Hadn't he been telling Sherlock about it from the start? A text book fact— _the fragility of life?_ The _East wind takes them all in the end._ To survive it or not... sentiments would only guarantee its _lasting effect._

_Because one life lost—broken heart remains._

Sherlock had been prone to it ever since he was a child— _Redbeard had proven it at length_ that gave Mycroft a glimpse of what his younger brother would be like. All because his silly little brother _cared._

Exposing his younger brother's weakness was not an option, and so Mycroft did everything in his power to _conceal it._

Hence, he trained Sherlock to _steel them—his mind, his heart—_ that made the older Holmes somewhat be deemed _all-business_ by the youngest—and cold-blooded by many _._ But then again— _wasn't he ever?_

It was a setup applicable only to him and his brother—Mycroft put up with his preference to make Sherlock see what he meant by _less sentiment_ whenever they were together _—always winning all sorts of mental games—he would never be lenient with Sherlock let all be damned;_ then avoiding birthday celebrations, avoiding social gatherings— avoiding phone calls and gifts on Christmas, _avoiding Christmas... avoiding people._

Avoiding his younger brother at times too proved to be _effective._

Sherlock ultimately got the point and reflected his older brother's actions. He even learnt to dismiss his older brother thoroughly. Mycroft made _his point._

Not that he truly believed his younger brother would fall for such a pattern— Sherlock could never avoid people, thus him meeting John Watson was inevitable. That was when Mycroft thought of it awhile then... that Sherlock _needed somebody to place all his attention—someone who needed him and his protection._ People are made stronger by the urge to protect others; _even make them kinder._

Mycroft was never inclined to the latter. _It was unappealing for him._

So it came to a point where Sherlock needed someone he could 'protect'. Thank goodness John Watson came along because the older Holmes needed no _nonsense_ from his younger brother—not when he, _Mycroft Holmes, was the 'embodiment' of the very word._

It was his expertise.

Now, _'caring'_ was particularly natural with John and this fact had always made Mycroft seek him whenever he felt the impulse to _'look after his younger brother'._ Despite all that has been said and done, Mycroft _will always look after Sherlock in his own way._ From a distant or even in the shadows, it was the only thing he could do without actually _attaching_ himself to his younger brother.

 _Unconventional_ yes, but it was all to _prepare Sherlock._

Because Mycroft knew sooner or later his _demons_ will come back to haunt him and when they do Sherlock could not afford being _weak_ and _sentimental._ He needed his younger brother to be _the genius that he was._ Mycroft had done well in preserving himself with the help of the ' _Uncle Protocol'_ to the later date, but the ground had been shaken badly with the _unexpected younger James Moriarty affair._

_Sherlock exposed himself to be the 'doting' younger brother much to Mycroft's unease._

The older Holmes' thoughts were suddenly interrupted upon a call on his phone. Looking down at the screen, he saw his younger brother's name projected on it. _Again._

Sighing, Mycroft's frown deepened and merely watched the mobile ring on.

 _This was clearly the opposite effect of not wanting Sherlock to be too attached to him,_ Mycroft Holmes woes. His sentiments right after his older brother's rescue had been too overwhelming—

_Should he, Mycroft be flattered?_

Under the circumstances, it only _bothered him._ Sherlock would not be of much help with his emotions scattered about. And especially not when _it was their own blood they needed to pluck from the ground._

Mycroft clenched his jaw as he cancelled Sherlock's call and started texting instead. Once sent, he looked outside again and saw the Diogenes club come into view. He waited with utmost rigidness for the sedan to stop. Eyes completely expressionless and with aura too domineering to be questioned, he went out of the car, gave no acknowledgement to the club's master who didn't look surprised to see him, and crossed the dark hall in long strides.

_His demon was waiting._

The crumpled piece of paper in his hand was enough to make him flee Baker Street without further knowledge of Sherrinford's plan and leave Sherlock on his own and that was because the paper he took from 221B's mantelpiece, _good god..._ the piece of paper that was _too familiar to him._ A piece from his _page._

The same sheet that could be found in his _red notebook._

The red notebook that contained most of his undisclosed plan... codes, patterns... _everything he had scribbled on when he was in one of his more pensive mood where words just keep flowing out._

The red notebook he shunned to carry during his _retrieval plan_ of Sherlock Holmes from _James Moriarty's hands_.

The red notebook which he left in the secured walls of Diogenes club.

He entered his office and went to the _underground—_ it was what he called his cold stone office with dark, unpainted walls reachable via Diogenes. He glanced up at his hidden cameras and immediately went over his wall locks.

One look inside and he knew the result.

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly.

_Terminal._

* * *

_The Jubilee's eye of the millennium. What else could it be?_

Sherlock got out of the cab wearing his familiar dark coat and looked up to the giant _London Eye_ that has been an attraction of the city from all over the world since its establishment. The giant _Ferris wheel_ found at the Jubilee Gardens of the south bank of the Thames River, in between the Westminster Bridge and Hungerford Bridge by the London Borough of Lambeth— _in short the heart of the nation._

What better place than to uncover his eldest sibling and his nasty schemes than the centre of London? Sherlock thought silently into the almost dark sky. He looked around the street where a long line of people were standing, seemingly in tangle to infinity range and queuing at the bottom of the Ferris wheel like it was a natural thing to do.

_Typical of people to gather amidst a status alert in the country._

With eyes narrowed, the detective crossed the road unto the curb with eyes slightly glancing at the city cameras. He had been trying to contact Mycroft but the latter was not responding nor was he showing any sign of wanting to get in touch. And just when things were reaching a _climax._

But that's what happens when Mycroft _thinks_ he can always hog the fun. Surely he didn't think Sherlock incapable of dealing with their _eldest?_ Just thinking of it annoyed Sherlock as he marched towards the bottom of the giant Ferris wheel with hands jammed in his coat.

_It was not about who meets Sherrinford first—it was about who gets to him that gets to play._

Mycroft can keep his secrets and plans.

Sherlock will stick to his initial one— _to_ _sabotage everything._

Besides, there was one particular reason he wanted to meet his eldest brother alone and that was something Sherrinford had to answer for. Once they see each other _face to face._

So the detective cut passed the people in the long line with an impassive face, allowing people to ogle at him and point fingers. He had forgotten how easily recognizable he was and berated himself for not carrying his baseball cap or even his adored deerstalker hat—which of course would make him stand out more. He crossed it out of his mind immediately.

Still, the queue could go on forever as he neared the entrance area and scowled at the civilians whispering his name. The London Eye has been impractically attracting these people almost every day, with its transparent ovoidal capsules that could carry a number of people at a time to the highest point where they can see the whole Great London.

_Also a perfect spot for any terror cell. But then—wasn't that why the security around was at maximum?_

Then again, he wouldn't past it his eldest to be _sly—especially if the challenged were mere ordinary people security._ Sherlock tried to call Mycroft again to no avail. _Exactly what has gotten him to be aloof during a crisis?_

_Stupid Mycroft._

Sherlock was observing every inch and niche with quick eyes over everything when out of nowhere he saw someone make a violent movement towards him that made him nearly reply in unison— _an expectation he had been waiting on since he arrived—_ only to realise it was a teen girl who suddenly grabbed his arm with her smart phone ready at hand.

"Do it again and you'll be sniped." He muttered at her after she took the photo, making the girl blink at him and shrug.

Sherlock followed her with a frown, ultimately deciding the female gender _utterly fearless_ when a tall man bumped to him next—and Sherlock was caught surprise as a mobile phone fell on his hand.

_That pattern..._

Sherlock glanced up to the tall man walking away as if nothing happened and then looked down at the phone and saw that its caller was on. Swiftly, he put it on his ear with eyes scanning the vicinity for any one on their phone— _which was everybody._

 _"Who's this?"_ Sherlock began knowing full well the answer but the detective had to admit though... _his blood was boiling in excitement_ and was doubtful his voice was able to hide it. _The final piece of the puzzle._

 _"What a very stupid question."_ came that deep, languid voice with a touch of American accent Sherlock thought he had heard before. _"Hello, Sherlock. It's nice to finally hear you again. I had been looking forward to this."_

"Likewise." The detective looked behind him into the long line towards the terminal of the Ferris wheel. "What kind of maniac have you turned into, Sherrinford?"

 _"Likewise, dear brother?"_ came the uninspired reply. _"You're hardly one to talk."_

"I am the one to talk." Sherlock made his way toward the front line in haste. Having Sherrinford's people around was fatal. "I have plenty of things to settle with you now why don't you show yourself?"

_"Still the impatient one, are you? Didn't Mycroft teach you well?"_

"You're both stupid brothers I barely need help. Speaking of Mycroft—what have you done with him?"

_"Couldn't you tell?"_

"Aside from everything?" Sherlock stopped walking and turned his whole attention on the mobile with eyes glinting dark. Even if he does accuse him now, Sherlock knew his eldest brother would never deny any of it. It was his _touch. This was the real Sherrinford._ "You've always been the deceitful one—"

_"I'm not sure if you're flattering me but it's an interesting notion—"_

"Why are you doing this?" despite his qualms, Sherlock had to hear it.

There was a short pause on the other line as the question seemed to brought up a range of answers then—

_"Another stupid question, Sherlock. You know exactly why—because I find you both still at the wrong side of my table after all this time. And Mycroft ever the stick in the mud."_

Sherlock clenched his jaw at the first sign of threat. He travelled his eyes at the many people and wondered if Mycroft would come on time. _He always does._

"That's pathetic even for you." He whispered belligerently.

_"And you still on drugs because of boredom is any better?"_

"Where are you?" Sherlock looked up at the rotating Ferris wheel containers and down to the people waiting for others to descend. "Show yourself."

_"Are you getting anxious? Why? Because Mycroft's not around? Or because you think I'm too much for you?"_

Sherlock's body straightened with his whole face turning rigid.

"Only one way to find out... so show yourself."

Sherrinford gave a dry chuckle. _"You sound mighty offended. Still hung up over the past? But face it, little brother if it's a battle of wits, you know you can't win me."_

"I've heard worse."

_"Mycroft's been diligent in reminding you, I see? He's a hopeless case, that brother of ours. Didn't you know he framed me? Not once, I tell you."_

Sherlock smirked. "Well deserved. Probably did you something good. Or turned you _worst."_

_"Oh, he turned me better, little brother. It shows how blood ties mean so little to him—something he got from me? But you... why do you stick with him all this time? Not that I care but you were never the hero type—little pirate of mine."_

"If you want to hear something far worst, he nearly sent me to Middle East so I don't know what you're complaining about. But if you're looking for sympathy I assure you, you're on the wrong street."

A sigh came from the other end while Sherlock quickly moved on to the first line with eyes around the suspicious people he could see. _There were too many people!_

_"I see. So you're also a hopeless case."_

"Now why did you bring me here?" he went on, afraid at the silence of his ever scheming eldest.

 _"A greeting."_ Sherrinford answered simply. _"And to make a point."_

As if on cue, Sherlock suddenly heard a number of gasps from people standing at the very front. In a matter of seconds, the detective was there and saw twenty or so people hurrying out of one of the slowly rotating passenger capsules which was about to level with the ground.

The reason was clear as the word got spread around.

_"Jeez, a skull!"_

_"There's suddenly a skull!"_

_"Was it part of the attraction?"_

Not hesitating, Sherlock went over to have a closer look and jumped on the empty capsule that was still moving. The now empty passenger capsule was wide enough for twenty five people and then he found there seated on one of the available chairs was _the skull._ The detective warily looked at it, phone still at hand.

"Sir—" the operator of the ride suddenly clung by the door as the capsule moved and Sherlock shot him a look before nearly throwing himself at the entrance that surprised the man— who somewhat recognized him without the hat—

_"Evacuate these people—_

"What?" the man paled in surprise that made Sherlock turn to him contemptuously—

 _"It's Mr. Sands!"_ he hissed the code that got the operator's eye to widen. _"Now go!"_

The detective watched the man let go of the entrance as it ascended and the door shut itself close, leaving Sherlock looking down at his skull quietly. _Mr. Sands_ had always been one of central police coding for _bomb threats._ That being made known to the force reduces the number of casualties. Sherlock put the phone back on his ear as the capsule rotated upwards.

"Have you become a local terrorist now?" he looked around every corner of the moving capsule. "No wonder Mycroft hates you. You ply on the petty."

_"Oh, no, not always. I just find this attraction befitting for our special event."_

"You're not going to kill off this people, are you!?"

_"You're the one inside the capsule—"_

"So you're going to kill me off then?"

Silence from the other side then—

" _Everyone dies in the end. This is just an extra helping hand."_

Sherlock tightened his hold on the phone and looked down the ground to the people who seemed to be exiting the area. People emerge from the capsule but he could see that none was boarding anymore. That got the detective to raise his eyes in satisfaction.

"Your special event doesn't need any audience." He said on the phone.

" _Still, I want to make it public. It cries for fame. And this is what I really admire about you, little brother."_ came Sherrinford's voice that hinted enthusiasm, " _You know it's a trap and you still go for it."_

"You can't kill a hobby. Besides, _I've got to collect my skull_." Sherlock muttered as he walked to the skull, inspected underneath the chair and finally reached for his pal and look over it too. There was no bomb or any indication on it being a threat whatsoever. "And now that you got me where you want me to be, when are you going to show yourself? You know my every movement which means you're somewhere you can see everything first hand." He scanned the vicinity thoroughly.

_"Oh, I'm just around... minding the view. I've just returned to London so of course I'd try this too. Why don't you enjoy the scene, Sherlock? Although I'm sure you're having the time of your life now."_

Sherlock paused and eyed the glass window; the opposite car was too far to even distinguish faces but the detective could see the other side jam packed with people. Narrowing his eyes further, a lone figure seemed to be just standing there by the window too, clad in a suit, unmoving. What more, seemed to be facing _him_ steadily.

The detective didn't move his eyes from the form and addressed the phone again.

 _"Hello, brother."_ He breathed.

 _"From a normal person's view, I'll find it quite strange you're the only one in there, Sherlock."_ Sherrinford mused on, _"Sadly these people around me don't notice anything at all. Thick headed they all are. And absolutely slow."_

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock stepped closer to the glass, eyes on the figure he knew to be his brother, "I know quite a handful of people who can give you a run for your money."

 _"Really? Like that John Watson or tiny missus Hudson?"_ he sounded grave in the background while Sherlock's eyes flickered at the mention of the names. And it dawned to him once more that strange feeling— _the feeling of helplessness when the people he was closed with get involve in his affairs when he carelessly forget about them._ It reminded him full well of the Napoleon of Blackmail, _Magnussen._ Needless to say, the detective licked his lips as he reached for his other phone to call John.

"Don't involve them." He said with eyes unblinking, "you know this is only within the family."

_"I know that. Mycroft's always been incessant about it. Why do you think I singled you out?"_

"So what do you want? You didn't call me here just so you can rant and be obnoxious, did you?" John wasn't answering and it pissed the detective as he began texting instead. Just then he noticed he was already halfway of the cycle and reaching the summit. The opposite capsule of course, was meant to reach the ground in matter of minutes. Once that happens, he knew Sherrinford's count to destruction will begin. He tried dialling Mycroft again, all the while trying to distract his eldest—"Pulling me out of Baker Street right under Mycroft's nose—you must had better plans to meet me so badly aside from delaying and distracting me that is."

" _This is not a distraction, Sherlock. It's a show. To make a point. Mycroft hates it when I go near you—it's different when you seek me on your own. I bet on your curiosity –you've always been out of his system. You were always the 'ticking bomb' trying to prove yourself to your much better seniors."_

Sherlock was suddenly surprised by the red lights that surrounded the whole London Eye. The sky had turned darker much quicker than he anticipated and as he expected, the passenger capsule containing his brother or whoever it was reached the ground ultimately with passengers flowing out just as Sherlock's capsule reached the highest peak.

And he watched helplessly as the man dispersed with the crowd. _If this was how he plans his escape..._

"So much for the better _senior_ if all you can do is call from half the sphere." The detective muttered with a little smirk as his capsule began descending. "But I agree with 'seeking you out'. You remember the story of the _East wind?_ It has generally become _me_ now _."_

 _"Really?"_ Sherrinford vibrated a laughter that seemed to distract Sherlock as he frowned down. _"You really think so? Didn't it ever occur to you that maybe he was specifically talking about me— removing the unworthy had always been my forte. I thought Mycroft was making the warning clear—that you'd have to be on your best if you want to survive me that is. Both of you."_

And Sherlock inhaled deep as he remembered those times. Big Ben's clock chimed six and the detective sighed out as his mind palace turned and flipped every possibility of him getting blown to pieces. If that was the plan then...

"You really believe Mycroft doesn't know we're both here?" he asked.

_"Even if he does my message to him was enough to send him flying to his secret service and by the time he realises his mistake I have already made my point. That I can get you and that I win. Or you really believe he'll choose you over the matter of national security?"_

"That's not even a question." Sherlock replied as he raised an eye after scanning the street and saw that familiar dark sedan glided in together with four Scotland Yard police cars that made his eyes glinted. _"I believe him."_

Red and blue blinking lights swarmed the bottom of the London Eye and within seconds, the facility was full of authorities, leading people out. Sherlock kept his eyes to the dark sedan that halted by the sideline but nobody came out. The next thing Sherlock knew, his phone was ringing and Mycroft was calling.

He stared at the ringing phone.

 _"Not unexpected."_ Sherrinford's voice on the other line still sounded too cool although Sherlock was sure Sherrinford could see that Mycroft has arrived. _"But still surprising. Seems like Mycroft is still the foolish older brother who comes to your rescue."_

"You'd never understand." Sherlock felt strangely apprehensive at the calmness of his eldest brother. The phone kept ringing. "For all you know, Mycroft has already been ahead of you all this time. _He is the smart one."_

_"Well, I haven't raised any white flags yet. Don't you know, Sherlock? Sometimes you just don't have to outsmart people."_

A heart beat and Sherlock pressed on the glass window midway down where he can already see people closer and watched as the sedan door opened and Mycroft's outline came out in his dark suit and umbrella.

"Sometimes you know," Sherrinford's voice from the other line was very quiet as if he was choosing his words carefully. That was when Sherlock noticed another person walked up behind his brother—

 _"Sometimes you just have to kill them."_ Sherrinford finished.

To Sherlock's sudden realisation, he hit the answer button of the ringing phone with heart racing—

_"Mycroft!"_

Exactly as he saw the unknown man point a gun in the middle of Mycroft's back—and gunshot filled the air—

 _"NO!"_ Sherlock lost all senses as he slammed his fist on the glasses on frenzy— shouting—but his own voice was not coming out— _what just happened?_

Moving objects around the terminal, people seemed to scatter everywhere in hazy flow—more sounds of alarm but he couldn't understand what just... a gunshot—his brother— the capsule was not moving— _dead._

Silence was ringing as his heart seemed to burst out of his chest and he wanted to crash the glasses knowing it was futile. He slammed again and again—unmindful of the numbing of his fist—the shock enveloping his very body and his ears ever hearing the sound of his beating heart when—

" _Sherlock?"_

Mycroft's voice.

The detective shot a look down the phone in his hand where the familiar voice was coming from and jammed it on his ear in disbelief—

_"Mycroft?"_

" _Oh, Sherlock!_ Answer when I call you!"

The younger Holmes stopped breathing for awhile as he shut his eyes with perspiration too cold on his skin. How the miracle happened he didn't care— _Mycroft's alive—_

 _"God damn you, Mycroft..."_ Sherlock hissed—

"What?"

But before Sherlock could utter another curse—another loud explosion rang too close in his ear and he felt the whole capsule shake as his body came crashing on the floor with a thud. Raising his eyes up in alert, he saw the red lights die and smoke came from the attached metal bars of his car—the bomb was attached outside— _and Mycroft was shouting on the phone_ —the next thing another loud explosion came that shattered his hearing and the ground shook more violently than ever— till it even disappeared on his feet and for a moment, Sherlock thought he was suspended in the air. Only to realise—thanks to the heads up of his mind palace—that the whole passenger capsule was falling down.

And the capsule tumbled down the Thames River, crashing on the water down below.

* * *

_**Terminal** _

* * *

_~To be continued~_

End is near T_T

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	13. List

_There was excruciating pain. His brain was being torn apart... even breathing was agonizing..._

_The memory was vague but his senses were heightened... the smell of fire on wax and wood... dirt and dust... the overpowering sweet smell of cocaine and plastic... his sweat... but the memory was vague._

_Pain kicked him. And again—and again till it was almost too much to bear. He was writhing. The beguiling feeling of ecstasy and elation had long gone and was replaced by torture. He was crying._

_Nobody was there. He was all by himself and he thought he was about to die alone— nobody even noticed—not one could see what he was going through and he wanted it to be so. He had always been alone._

_But in the middle of mist and confusion and pain, there was a voice. A familiar voice calling to him urgently, insistently... but he was lost and he could not find its owner._

_The sound of ambulance._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Of course it was him. It was always him. Whoever put in his mind that he was ever alone?_

_There was always him and his brother since the beginning._

_"I'm here, Sherlock."_

_"Help me..."_

_"I'm always here." The sound was smooth, gentle and dependable. "Now prepare a list." It grew angry. One of the rare occasion that he was actually intimidated by his brother's person. The list was always ready._

_It was a vague memory evoked in his subconscious as he heard the sound of ambulance again. He had been hearing the sound quite often and in his midlife too... hasn't he gotten old enough to stop making people worry?_

_The sound was loud but the voice was ever near. His subconscious recognised the voice and knew there was nothing left to fear. There was no way he would be dying when that person was near._

* * *

Every time Mycroft closes his eyes all he could see were the flashes of the passenger capsule falling down and crashing on the riverside, and his younger brother's body being pulled up from the water by his secret service men minutes after. They had been on Sherlock's shadow since he left Baker Street, but just as Mycroft thought, _something was brewing._

When Mycroft heard his brother was at _London Eye_ he resented Sherrinford more and sent even the Special Forces without ado. _An attack was coming_. He tried calling Sherlock but his phone was out of reach. The next report he received almost made him order all units to engage as Sherlock apparently occupied one of the passenger capsules _alone_.

The detective may just have turned the _on_ button.

Mycroft tried calling Sherlock again to warn him—although he knew Sherlock must know it already— it was such a relief when the detective answered his phone but too late—a loud gunshot came that turned all tides.

It was a simultaneous shot however, as one of his snipers were also ready on air that ended with a body on the ground. Rest assured that the person _acting him_ was well geared when he was shot at the back. It would have been a different business if the aim was at the head. And one body lay on the ground— _dead._

 _Then came the sudden explosions and the image of the hurtling capsule plummeting under that would forever be in Mycroft's memory._ Given his gifted mind, it was impossible to forget every detail. He remembered the phone falling out of his hand and stepping out of the sedan despite his safety issues as people screamed and ran about. His men were charging towards the river and before he knew it so was he. He remembered them pulling out Sherlock's soaked and unresponsive body and it being revived, his dark locks wet and plastered on his white face, his chest not moving.

Mycroft stood there, dumbfounded the entire moment for nothing could have prepared him for it.

Sherlock was unconscious... _his eyes weren't moving._

Mycroft took steps closer, quietly and uncertainly.

_There were gashes on his head... a haemorrhage was ever possible..._

He stood there, rooted on the spot and not breathing, but his mind _wouldn't just stop thinking._

_If he doesn't wake up now... Sherlock will most certainly die._

He stood his ground despite the urge to do something... but what does it matter? _Sherlock was dying_...

Mycroft could barely close his fist and had wanted to tell his people to send the body to the ambulance immediately but he just stood there, unexpectedly helpless, his strength sapped by his dreaded vision that came to reality. _Waiting..._

It was the longest seconds in Mycroft's life as things began to whirl inside his mind—the door of his _what-could-be_ was opening slowly to the possibilities— _dark possibilities_ — that after all _he was the one going to be left behind with a broken heart and not the other way around_ when a cough from the body told him otherwise. Plenty of coughing sound came and Sherlock's body began to shake violently and Mycroft could not remember how he got there but he was beside his brother at once—and he saw his younger brother's eyes flutter open.

_Oh._

Sherlock breathed air painfully and that was when Mycroft was assured his brother had escaped the clutches of death when he saw the detective look at him. That was when the older Holmes remembered to breathe too and before he knew it, he was taking command.

" _Get him out of here!"_ his voice was stronger than he expected—

It was fast as men after men came to their aid and Sherlock was on a stretcher within seconds with oxygen mask ready at hand. Mycroft clenched his jaw and replied tersely to any delays when he suddenly felt a strong tug on his sleeve's cuff. Sherlock was holding him with eyes surprisingly full of life.

Looking down at his brother and meeting his determined eyes, Mycroft somehow understood what it was about and reached for the top of Sherlock's hand and gave it a light squeeze. The detective held on for another second insistently despite his position, before finally letting go as the medical personnel carried his stretcher to the waiting ambulance.

And Mycroft watched them go with eyes clouding dark, jaw squaring and hands finally closed into fists.

His position hadn't change since he arrived at the central hospital few minutes later after the accident. Standing there, solid as a pole, Mycroft Holmes waited with arms crossed outside the emergency room, an action he hadn't done for a long time since _Sherlock_ got too lost with his addiction few years ago. Now that he was back, it reminded him of many things about his brother and had to close his eyes with a palm on his face.

He wasn't one to soften up with memories, no. But Sherlock's near death experiences had always been a _death_ of a part of him too. That was something Mycroft won't be able to remove from his system. _It was his obsession._

Security of the hospital and out of reach from the media was the first thing he had carried out before stepping into the white corridor. His phone had been used many times on service areas during his wait too for he could not afford not to _work_ when he knew the person responsible for this was bidding his time and waiting for another attack. He would have gone out to handle the matter knowing Sherlock was alive but he just couldn't leave, not _without trusted people about._

Silence filled Mycroft as his only companion was _himself._

_If only that red light would stop blinking already..._

He was then distracted of the double doors from the opposite hall suddenly opening and there came hand in hand were Mr. and Mrs. Watson, both clad in dark jackets and wearing urgent and solemn expressions. The older Holmes pressed his lips tight, feeling that _unusual relief_ every time he saw John Watson around and turned to them with hands falling on his side with expression naturally blank.

"Oh, god how is he?" Mary breathed out, her eyes full of honest concern that made Mycroft raise an eyebrow— _his mind palace jumping at the fact that she shot her once—_ and looked towards her husband.

"He's breathing... probably broken a few bones. But he's always been resilient."

John was looking at him accusingly and the older Holmes had to steel his eyes at the doctor.

_"I know. This is all my fault."_

"I'm not blaming you." John responded briskly with his too easy to read expression, "Sherlock's an idiot too. I shouldn't have left him—he already predicted something like this would happen—he knew it was coming."

"How much do you know?"

"Enough about you brothers to understand you're all _the same... idiots._ Why can't the three of you just simply sit it out in a cafe or watch some football game and talk about what's eating you? Not murdering each other."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "If it's that simple—"

"No, it's that simple! You people are the one making it complicated!"

"John." Mary whispered with a glance at her husband who looked her way before looking back at the British government head. Mycroft simply raised another eyebrow and travelled his eyes on the doctor's shoulder.

"Well... you already understand that I and my brothers are not like _anyone else._ Simply putting off our history and laying it before each other would do more harm than good. What you have to understand, John, is that this is not a matter of misunderstanding. The three of us _understand each other perfectly well_ that is _why_ we are standing where we are."

He locked eyes with the doctor with coldness he was meant to be giving to his eldest.

"Our eldest brother has long left his crossroads _._ He always had the taste for the _dark._ How do you think Sherlock and I found the difference between _the good and the bad_ and made a choice? Because we saw our eldest brother on the path of destruction and _he didn't want to go alone._ What else is there to do but to oppose him?"

John's face paled and silence fell that was followed by the doctor's voice of indignation.

"You can list up his crime if you want but I still don't understand why he wants to harm both of you... I really don't."

Mycroft smiled.

"You don't have to understand him." The British government head stood in his full height as he raised his face and looked away, "I'm quite enough to do that. All you have to do is brace yourselves with the wave and _survive._ When we deal with things like this sometimes we have to forget the roots. We first just have to _stop it at all cost_. That has always been the protocol."

He glanced sideways towards the emergency door for awhile, before blinking and nodding at the couple.

"With this development with Sherlock, I believe all my doubts had been erased." His eyes glinted as he looked at the doctor one last time. "I'm afraid this time... _I might be the one to pull the trigger."_

"Because he's thinking the same." John added as Mycroft walked pass him who echoed his words with eyes resolute.

_"Because he's doing the same."_

"Where are you going?" the doctor called to the older Holmes who walked along the corridor towards the exit door, "Mycroft?"

"Where I should be. I need to deal with this, John. Take care of Sherlock—"

A pause then—

"No— _wait!"_ running steps could be heard as the doctor tried to catch up with Mycroft who stopped to turn around and look at the man with a little curt of his eyebrows. John shook his head as he faced Mycroft. "I can't let you out, I'm sorry."

There was Mycroft's threatening eyebrow raising that made John lick his lip.

"Excuse me—?"

"I can't— not until Sherlock wakes up."

"It'd be for his good too if he wakes up and find things already fixed—"

"Not if he doesn't find his brother—"

" _For goodness sake, John—"_

"I'm telling you, anything could happen when you walk out right now in that battlefield. I _know it._ " John's eyes glinted gravely and his surmounting emotion made the older Holmes raise his chin. "And I know the feeling of someone whose ready to throw it all— _Mycroft_ —I don't want to be the person to tell Sherlock his older brother's gone somewhere nobody knows about!"

Mycroft watched the doctor in a strange way. "Sentiments will not keep me here when there's a work to be done."

"You know Sherlock will look for you the moment he wakes up." The doctor spoke strongly this time with all bit of his emotion sizing up, "I'm speaking of facts— _he will try to get to Sherrinford if you shut him out again and before we know it he'll be endangering himself all over—all since the two of you won't talk about it because you're both too fixated in protecting each other!"_

Another pause. And Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

* * *

He saw _him_ stand there the moment he opened his eyes and knew it wasn't a trick of his mind for he could feel his sore body hit his consciousness the moment he took a deep breath. His joints responded with a little ache now and then, but he could feel no lasting damage. And Sherlock came to and uttered his first words.

_"That's new. Did I really nearly die?"_

His throat was dry; he even thought it was inflamed as he addressed the rare scene of a tall man in suit standing at the foot of his bed. Mycroft Holmes was watching him with his usual dull eyes, arms crossed and press of a fake smile. Sherlock studied his brother in one glance and knew he had been distressed. His tie was all wrinkled.

"If you had gone deep enough you _might have_ , _little brother_." His tone was icy. He was not on for any humour. "You should consider yourself lucky. Having to fall at such a height—you could have suffered—"

"How long was I gone?" Sherlock ignored him and blinked his eyes to his surroundings as he tried to sit up and feeling a dull pain by his right shoulder before looking up at his brother's figure again. They were the only people in the room but the contents on the side table said much of a woman's presence and side chairs used by others. Mycroft didn't move from his position with eyes fixated on his younger brother sourly.

"Twenty five hours. My secretary had been coming back and forth too. She will be here again in half an hour."

Sherlock's eyebrows curt as it narrowed to his brother suspiciously.

"And you're still here, why?"

Mycroft sighed. "Because your staunch friend, John Watson, can be very wordy at times."

The dark haired detective smirked and touched the IV drip on his wrist before thoughtfully looking up again.

"You never listen to John."

"Quite right... but he can be very convincing, that fellow. Still, I will make no excuse to tell you how... _sorry_ I am for what happened, Sherlock..."

"You always think everything is your fault." Sherlock muttered with a stretch on his arm and avoiding Mycroft's gaze who stood his ground with a firm look in his eyes. "Everything that has happened, people that have died, Sherrinford's return, my drug abuse—you always take them on you. Can't we be responsible of our actions?"

"No." The British government head said simply. " _The laws of celestial mechanics state when objects collide, a damage of collateral nature is always guaranteed_. This _war_ between myself and our eldest has been the root of all our afflictions—all the damage taken, _everything up to this point_ — and the only solution is for both _mobility_ to be _stopped completely_ in order to restore peace."

Sherlock grinded his teeth. The meaning of his brother needed not any elaboration.

"Mycroft—"

"It's a balance of probability. One we could not deny."

There was a pause as Sherlock frowned to himself. His brother was really a pain... speaking of finishing business like it was meant to be so. A death wish. The dark haired detective inhaled painfully as he shook his head.

"You won't die... but that person... the one I watched gunned down... _who looked like you..._ "

"He's alive... _fortunately._ " Mycroft smiled that didn't reach his eyes. "I was taking chances on him be targeted by the shoulder or others limbs but you know how these things can turn ugly in the next second—"

_"You use other people as your shield?"_

"It isn't the first time." Mycroft's aura turned very grave and sombre as his arms fell on his sides silently, with eyes flickering. "There are certain _practice_ to these things, brothermine... _even I am of no exception_ especially when we're speaking of national security. People of a resemblance to me, _with combat background of course,_ hired for the sole purpose of _acting as me..._ the Uncle Protocols I call it. You don't expect me to come around unguarded, do you?"

"Which means threats your way is always imminent if you have identical men posing as you around?" Sherlock muttered more to himself as he distractedly looked around with mind palace in super speed. "That's why most of my network get confuse of who to follow or your whereabouts... _decoys_... brilliant."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly.

"You're surprisingly lackadaisical when you've seen one of my samples from a recent encounter. Don't you remember that one up close? You even thought it was me and went as far as _getting kidnapped_ in the process."

Sherlock slowly met his brother's eyes with a sudden realisation—and the image of a body on the floor inside a large, dark warehouse with its missing ring finger lying _dead_... the same body that was brought to Bart's morgue weeks after his older brother's facade _death._

" _James Moriarty's dead body of you..."_

"An inauspicious missing man from my line of service men." Mycroft went on, "We always take it as a threat when _one of me_ goes missing. He was reportedly seen last in a hotel and disappeared completely on the next twenty four hours. Who would have thought we would find him under the pieces of the warehouse _you_ demolished."

The detective stared at his brother who nodded quietly.

"Yes. John told me all about the _finger_ sent your way and I have received the report from my secretary. That missing piece of the puzzle I kept pondering about... and all this time I thought of James Moriarty getting you was all because of your whimsical gesture of jumping to all rabbit holes you find curious."

"You're one to talk. You knew one of your men was missing yet you still risk you life just to save mine?"

Mycroft's eyes twinkled. "Old habits."

"Fair enough." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in agreement as he cleared his throat. "Which lead to various things of your abduction...because James Moriarty was playing cahoots with our eldest brother?"

"Add him on the list."

Sherlock glowered and licked his lips. "Why do I have a feeling our eldest brother's trying to kill us?"

"You must have hit your head hard." Mycroft eluded as he put both hands on his pocket, the icy glint on his eyes returning. "Whether he tried to kill us or not, it was still a mistake on my part to leave you if I hadn't seen that piece of paper."

"So there's more?" the younger Holmes abruptly pointed out—bedridden as he was his mind was still quick to catch castaway words of most significance. "He's really after something else?"

"Of course he is." Mycroft frowned deeply. "But under the circumstances of you _accident_ you are to stay here and _not leave. I beg you_ to do nothing rash anymore. I will most likely find his whereabouts and deal with him... either he submits or heaven be his judge. In any case, it's almost concluding... there is nothing left for you to do."

"Isn't there?" the detective straightened his paining shoulders and stared at his brother suspiciously.

"Not this time. You've gone through enough." He looked at the man on the bed with a slight crossness Sherlock normally sees in his brother's eyes anyways. He then looked sideways and saw the emergency button right by his pillow instead of his phone. Where the hell was his phone?

_Underwater. With fish._

Sherlock's eyes glinted in vengeance.

There was a knock on the door and John Watson came in with Mary and their sigh of relief was more than enough for Sherlock to give his best friend a dark _, meaningful look._ John was used to those things and immediately replied with his usual contortedly confused one.

"Should you be sitting up?" Mrs. Watson went to the side of the bed questioningly while John stood behind her, eyes still at the detective who stretched his neck and looked at the couple.

"It's been twenty-five hours, why shouldn't I be?"

"Why, still going somewhere? Your brother can't stop you?" John asked that made Sherlock scowl at him.

"He's not going anywhere." Mycroft raised both eyebrows just as he fished his phone out of his pocket which seemed to be vibrating of a call just then. He turned his back at the group with Sherlock's wide eyes looming at the phone. "Yes?"

John suddenly blocked his view of Mycroft and glared at the patient.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed to the former army doctor.

 _"What are you?"_ John retorted back hotly. "I told your brother to stay so you both can keep eye on each other—not plotting any more escapes behind anyone's back!"

"Well, sorry to disappoint you," the detective answered back with a look over his friend's shoulder towards his older brother, "but the game isn't over and if I don't make my move someone's going to die."

"And it sure is not going to be you again?"

"Enough, John—we're on schedule—"

" _What schedule?"_

 _"Can you boys just shut it?"_ Mary glared at the men and shook her head. "It's either we act or get acted upon—which in your case Sherlock was shameful when he got you—"

"It's all part of an act—you think I'll let myself go there without a plan?"

John cursed aloud that made Mycroft turn their way while his wife close her eyes wisely before looking at the patient again. Sherlock suddenly gave the doctor a warning look just as the older Holmes said—

 _"I understand."_ And hung up on his phone. Turning to the lively group, Mycroft looked over his brother quietly.

"I have to be going. It is of utmost importance that I present myself... to individuals." He glanced at the former army doctor pointedly. "Look after him for me, John. If you would please."

"You'll be fine on your own, Mycroft?" John asked with sudden urge to ask.

The British government head looked really bemused. " _I am never on my own."_

Sherlock caught his brother's eyes just then when the door opened again and a female nurse carrying a tray of medicine came in a hurry. The group looked at her questioningly while the nurse gazed at the bedside in confusion.

"I thought there was an emergency call." She explained as she put the tray on the table with a frown on herself, "The red light for the emergency service was blinking..." her voice trailed away at the look she received from the detective.

"The only emergency I see is my brother's losing weight." Sherlock pressed a smile and saw John giving him a look of dawning comprehension as he saw the detective hide the emergency button behind him when everyone else was not looking. "Give him a pudding."

"Amusing." Mycroft replied crossly just as the nurse ducked down towards the door.

"I will check system." She said and disappeared.

"Please do." Sherlock called just as Mycroft stood on the side of the bed and followed the nurse with his eyes rising in mild suspicion.

"Sherlock, why did you just—" he began—but the words hadn't been out of his mouth when things happened all at once— Sherlock out of nowhere—suddenly grabbed his brother's neck from behind and instantly injected something in it from the nurse's tray that he snatched _when everyone else was not looking except John—_

Mary watched with a hand over her mouth as Mycroft slowly passed out from the tranquilizer's effect. Sherlock caught his brother under the arms while John helped him and together, the two heaved the tall older Holmes on the bed and gazed at him for a moment.

 _"God, Sherlock..."_ John was muttering with eyes on Mycroft as he snatched the injection from the detective's hand and then checked the contents of the tray. "Jesus... do you know who you just attacked? It's the British Government! Do you want to be accused of _treason!?"_

"It's just my brother." Sherlock said as he pulled away from his IV drip and rounded on the bed, opening his older brother's chest coat and fumbling for his brother's phone and inspected it. "There's no harm in making him take a shot, my brother."

"Why do you always have to physically intimidate him?" John was obviously referring to that event back when the detective twisted his brother's arms out of drug's effect. Sherlock raised all eyebrows.

"I'm the only one allowed to do that— even Sherrinford has lost all privilege."

"Kind of a turn on this, _'nobody-harms-my-brother except me',_ dialogue." Mary said with a shake of her head. "But he will definitely be _pissed off_ , Sherlock."

"Why are we doing this?" John wanted to know heatedly—

"Obviously," Sherlock busied himself in taking out other stuff and finally saw a red notebook. "because my brother's not thinking straight."

 _"Oh, I think there's a question to that."_ John watched Sherlock open the notebook and pieces of papers fell on the floor. Both bending down to pick the pieces up, the doctor recognized the torn down as the _list_ of medication Sherlock had once scribbled down back at the jet plane. Seemingly remembering it too, the detective gave him the other pieces _except one._

The last paper was not torn to pieces, it was a whole sheet. And written on it, as John and Mary looked over the shoulder of the detective was fine scribbling—the same handwriting Sherlock saw on his wall— three words:

_I want this._

Sherlock crumpled the paper and looked around for his change of clothes. When he spotted them, he quickly looked at his friends and blinked once—especially John looking so unconvinced and confuse—

"I'm going to go meet my eldest brother now. I have an appointment." He said like it was enough explanation.

"Wait—" John uttered a curse next as Sherlock walk past him to get his clothes. "You're going to meet the guy who nearly blew you up to bits like it's some sort of picnic?"

"He _did_ blow me up." Sherlock was changing fast with Mary shaking her head again and back turned away from him. "Mycroft wasn't lying when he said he's about to find him soon. We can't let him do that. Twenty-five hours is enough for Mycroft to stage that but Sherrinford is no fool. He will strike from many directions like what he did at London Eye... Mycroft sitting here _waiting_ means he has the upper hand... apparently this notebook. And then that call... was likely my least favourite _eldest brother._ This phone is ever the semblance of the ones he loved to give away on crowded places. Must've sent one to Mycroft."

"What?"

"You think this Sherrinford will kill Mycroft?" Mary asked once he was decent with his clothes again and Sherlock nodded with compression of lips.

"It's a duel—Sherrinford tried to kill him too you know while I'm watching. Can't really escape the dramatic in the family. That psycho brother. I'm only a distraction and always the bait." Sherlock put the notebook inside his coat and glance at his sleeping brother. "He's an idiot if he thinks he can talk Sherrinford to admit defeat."

"So why did you have to tranquilize your brother _when he's the one who knows the plan_?"

"So I won't be anyone's bait—nobody will go to the bait—how come I'm always the bait?" Sherlock turned to his friend agitatedly. "A repetitive action is dull! And I don't like his plan."

_"You know his plan?"_

"Of course I do." A scowl was thrown to the doctor. "Why do you ask so many questions— _we have to go, it's dangerous!"_

"Dammit, Sherlock." John shook his head as both men turned to Mary whose eyebrows were all raised testily.

"Please take care of my brother." Sherlock suddenly was solemn, like a kid entrusting a favourite toy to another. "And if you can add more tranquilizers that would be better. I don't want to worry about him being in danger again. He's a stupid brother, _but he's all I got._ "

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Watson clutched his arm and squeezed it, "I will look after him... but when he wakes up he will be beastly."

"And murderous, yes." Sherlock nodded with a smirk, "that's why _I'm leaving you."_

"He won't take it personally right?" John asked as they left the building that night after criss-crossing Mycroft's guards and using the back door of the hospital as an exit getaway. "I know he doesn't mix business with personal but this one is quite _personal_ , Sherlock."

"He might." Sherlock said as he kept on texting on the phone he didn't own just as they hired a cab out of the alley a few blocks away from the hospital. "But I don't care. As far as I'm concerned this is as personal to me as it is to him."

"Who are you texting?"

"My network. They've all been very useful..." The two jumped inside the cab, and shut the door close. "...they've been following the tall man I met at London Eye and gave me the phone. I specifically instructed them to tail him and the people he meets with... now I'm reaping the harvest."

"So where are we going?"

"My cemetery."

"Y-your cemetery?"

"You know what I mean."

John sighed and told the cab the destination of Sherlock's old gravestone yard.

"That's why I said— _why not invite each other in a cup of tea inside Speedy's?_ "

"We could." The detective answered. " _And bring the graveyard over there."_

* * *

Out in the middle of that night within in London, in a cemetery and seated under a large tree was Sherrinford Holmes. Tall, lanky and wearing an American suit and tie with short, dark hair almost the same with his brothers. His eyes were sharp and glint in the dark; he was poised with elbows on his knees, hands entwined together and waiting...

Before him, the earth was dug deep into two grave plots with mounting soil at the side. A piece of paper was on the ground too and listed on it were the names of both his brothers all crossed out.

And dozens of red blinking lights flashing ominously and quite hidden underneath the ground.

_Everyone digs their own grave often._

_And sometimes they just get blown away._

* * *

_**List** _

* * *

_~To be continued~_

Two chapters to go :)

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	14. Christmas

_Snow fell outside the glass window of a small café decorated with bright lights and mistletoe of the holiday spirit. Instrumental music played at the background while lamps were lit that gave a prevailing ambiance of warmth and comfort. There were few people inside the shop and its privacy made the two male occupants—one a Year 12 student of fifteen and the other a grown man— seated by the glass window to choose such a public place._

_The Holmes brothers._

_They silently occupied the table till menu cards were placed in front of them by the waiter. After pointing their coffee preference to the server who disappeared automatically from sight, the eldest didn't avert his eyes from his younger brother and slowly tapped his fingers on the table with an air of someone aware that his every movement was being watched._

_Sherrinford Holmes then gave his younger brother a curious look. Mycroft Holmes was looking out of season wearing a dark suit and tie with a neatly folded blue napkin on his chest pocket. It had always been a point of attention how Mycroft could be anything but unkempt. Especially for a young man staying in London alone._

_Still, it was a change of mood to have his brother around. Mycroft had always been the silent unconcerned type: a highly intelligent, standoffish thinker with a gift to dominate and manipulate if only he be bothered. Sherrinford had always had inclination towards him— he regarded the boy with slight enthusiasm with his exceptional skills. But what made his younger brother truly useful to him was his lack of energy to concern himself with other people. He won't be a threat._

_"Christmas appears to be full of surprises this year." The eldest Holmes began quietly with eyes lingering on his brother. "With you calling me out here all of a sudden, it seems unfair that both of us are together while our parents and Sherlock are back home today, brother."_

_Mycroft looked up from the table with a point blank expression, and though only fifteen years of age his young face was discoloured and dark lines under his eyes that Sherrinford found remarkably telling._

_"I'm afraid I might spoil the mood." The younger brother replied softly as he travelled his eyes outside the glass window of the cafe somewhere in central London. "I think I'll hate Christmas after this."_

_The eldest Holmes narrowed his eyes and raised his pointed chin._

_"Well... You never found it appealing. Neither of us did. Sherlock won't either seeing as you're out of his sight when he's always clinging on your leg." The eldest gave a short smile and let the two cups of coffee be placed in front of them. He reached for one and raised it like for a toast. "All's fair in the world."_

_Mycroft stared at him while he sipped the black coffee without a single change of expression. The instrumental music at the background played a Christmas carol in piano that eased the few occupants around but its warmth didn't seem to reach the brothers' table. Sherrinford placed the coffee back to its saucer quietly and gave Mycroft a long look._

_"You seem preoccupied." He leaned back on his chair and locked his dark eyes onto Mycroft who returned the stare. "You called me out here right after your boarding school's term ended for the holiday. And here I was thinking Mycroft's finally seeking for help. I never thought I'd saw the day."_

_Again, Mycroft just stared at him with deep set eyes that seemed to swallow him. For a young man of that age, it would have been outlandish, but Mycroft was not like anyone his age that made Sherrinford pursed his lips with narrowed eyes._

_"You don't want to leave me on my deductions, Mycroft." He began again now sounding intolerant. "Speak."_

_"I think you know already since I just came with business from school." His tone was dead._

_Sherrinford blinked in curiosity. Ah... the boarding school... of course. Mycroft had just entered the same boarding school he attended years ago for seniors. That brought back interesting memories._

_"Do tell."_

_"You left a lasting impression to the Professors while you were studying there." The younger Holmes looked straight at him, finally deciding to be appeaseable. "It made things easy for me. They leave me alone." He paused as he lowered his eyes on the stagnant dark liquid in his cup and went on, "There's this story you've told me about the school, big brother... do you remember?"_

_The eldest Holmes nodded with a late smile as his eyes lingered on the young. Christmas indeed seems to be full of surprises._

_"You mean the famous 'seven suicides'?"_

_"Yes." Mycroft was not known to squirm in his seat but he did. "It was always the topic of thrill and pleasure among little groups in every corner of the school that made it quite hard to ignore... those 'suicides' that happened decades ago. Students were primarily concerned of the mentality of the 'seven' and be judge on their own. The maddening thing is how they sometimes exaggerate stories when they should be telling the flat truth... but details on stories tend to get lost along the way so I—disbelieving such unrealistic accounts made a research on my own."_

_The brothers locked eyes._

_"And?" the eldest pressed on with curiosity aroused._

_"I've exhumed some history... and 'crime'." Mycroft's jaw visibly clenched and the look in his eyes was anything but warm. Sherrinford just watched him silently, unable to respond as seemingly both of them were at the same page of the book._

_It made the eldest smile. "Crime? It's suicide, brother—"_

_"Suicides that also happened during your two years of stay."_

_Silence fell between the brothers as snow fell sadly outside the shop. And Sherrinford reached for his cup and sipped quietly again before putting it down and shaking his head._

_"What you're saying is that 'I' had something to do with it?" he threw a severe look at Mycroft, his piercing eyes enough to go through but his brother didn't seem faze. This incensed Sherrinford more than anything. "Mycroft, that's a cruel way to imply—"_

_"It's not an implication."_

_"Oh? And on what basis—?"_

_"You told me yourself."_

_The eldest Holmes surveyed his brother with lips parted open and face blank. Mycroft was looking paler but firm by the minute with dark eyes steeled and determined. Now, that was a change the eldest Holmes did not foresee._

_It could be troublesome; Sherrinford thought as he put both hands together and leaned on the table slowly._

_"I did? Let's hear it." He prompted with relish curiosity. "Your deduction."_

_For a moment, the Mycroft didn't speak, seemingly distracted by the dark glinting eyes looking down at him. Then—_

_"The first time you told me the story was during Christmas holiday of your first return... You told me there were seven of them who committed suicides in the school's history decades before...I remembered thinking how those seven must've been idiots."_

_"So?"_

_"You said there were 'seven' in all." Mycroft repeated and hesitated as he licked his drying lips, voice faltering "It was your first return for Christmas... but I checked the dates and only four were counted before you came... the fifth suicide happened after New Year on your second term..." Mycroft's voice shook, "and the sixth... and the seventh—"_

_"Have some coffee, Mycroft."_

_"You said there were 'seven' but when before Christmas there were only four—how could you give the exact number of suicides when they haven't happened—!"_

_"You're shaking. I suggest you take your coffee now." His tone was ever lucid and when he caught his younger brother's eyes again there was a flicker of fear finally reflected on them. Finally. But Sherrinford couldn't blame Mycroft—not when he was smiling like the devil._

_"Brother!" Mycroft's voice had suddenly gotten stronger but Sherrinford shook his head calmly._

_"It was a mere slip of the tongue taken from inference to prediction. Even you can do that—how many people do you see everyday can you predict would take their lives? A simple stance, posture, wrists, fingernails—it can all tell. And do you really think I'm capable of such a thing, brother dear?"_

_A pause then—_

_"Redbeard." Mycroft's face looked crestfallen and white but the steadiness of his voice was admirable. Sherrinford was not smiling now. "Symptoms of paralysis...drying fur, blackness of eyes and teeth... It was clear he was poisoned that slowly killed him till there was nothing left but to relieve him of pain... to put him down... I had been aware of it..."_

_He raised his eyes to his eldest with an uncertain flicker. Sherrinford didn't look so happy._

_"Since when did you care about a dog?"_

_"Since I was hoping you'd tell me that the poison was not meant for Sherlock."_

_"You think I would hurt Sherlock?"_

_"It's not beyond you... I know you—I observe you. Your pattern—your behaviour—"_

_"Mycroft—"_

_"You're a psychopath—!"_

_"No." Sherrinford placed his hand on top of his other carefully. "In answer to your question, I would never hurt Sherlock... I was even a bit concerned when he was the one who carried Redbeard's poisoned treats but luckily he didn't touch it—"_

_Mycroft lost the ability to speak with his eyes widening._

_Sherrinford finished his black coffee and leaned back on his chair, eyes suddenly full of life as he eyed his younger brother once more. And he smiled._

_"Three months," the eldest began again with delighted eyes. "It only took my young brother three months to reveal what the police never found out. But I suppose it's my slip of tongue... I was much more impulsive by then, you know, Mycroft? So much energy and excitement at the prospect of making those four actually do what I bid them. And just because I know the right words to say. It was an experiment."_

_"You—"_

_"We're not much the same, now that I think of it. You hate people. I love them. I love observing them, I love controlling them—I love it when I drive them to a corner and see how desperate they struggle to maintain their sanity they never thought they had—"_

_The fifteen year old slammed his white palms on the table that shook and spilled his untouched coffee._

_"What's wrong with you?" Mycroft injected with hatred now etched on his face. "How could you kill—?"_

_"I told you I didn't. I merely gave them a helping 'whisper'. A hand. I had always liked my poisons. And they were so boring leading meaningless life so I told them something of fact—that whether they exist or not it won't matter—nobody would notice even if they die—"_

_"But Sherlock—!"_

_"Oh, so this is about our little brother? I have nothing against him; he was just a tool of the experiment. I wouldn't hurt him directly."_

_Mycroft's lips trembled with eyes not leaving his eldest. His hands shook too that made him close it into fists and take it down from the table. Sherrinford was all eyes to him. Pity. If his brother could not stomach simple experiments then what was the use of him? A real pity._

_"You have to stop, brother..." Mycroft suddenly whispered with a glance up. "Turn yourself in."_

_Sherrinford stopped smiling at the unexpected posed threat._

_"Why?"_

_"Because it's the right thing to do."_

_Sherrinford chuckled loudly. Oh, the naïveté of the young._

_"And if I don't?" he asked testily, eyes glinting. "What 'can' you do?"_

_They stared at each other with gazes they have never given each other. And Mycroft had never looked so much determined, so much passion behind his usually deadlock eyes. Sherrinford could tell something got triggered inside his brother. Interesting._

_"I'm going to stop you."_

_"You? Someone powerless like you cannot stop me." He said with intimidating eyes lingering on the brother he had always taken for granted. "You're just a boy whereas I— I have been working the other side of this world with my eyes closed. This world only works for the powerful, Mycroft, and unless you have that the palm of your hands you do not stand a chance against me. You cannot protect anyone—not even precious little brother Sherlock."_

_He saw Mycroft went pail and who could blame him? Threats he would usually utter to strangers now was given to a family member. Sherrinford could not deny the dark urge to continue—who knew personal things could make him even a shade darker?_

_Before he knew it, Sherrinford had reached for Mycroft's cold hand and held it tight with a smirk on his face._

_"Don't worry, I don't have any hard feelings for you. I won't do anything to you as long as you continue being a good boy. But if you don't listen to me..." the smile he gave dropped down as his eyes flickered alive, "you will be one of those unfortunate boys who committed suicide while drinking coffee."_

_He said it with a straight face as he took Mycroft's cup and pressed it on the fifteen-year old's weak hands._

_Was he ever a bully of the weak?_

_"By the way, little brother... aren't you alone in London now?"_

_The threat seemed to be taken lightly however when on the summer of the next year, Mycroft was so desperate to 'meddle' that on a particular sunny day, it was unfortunate that the sixteen year old nearly drowned from the family pool after accidentally 'slipping over.'_

_And many other 'suspicious' incidents after._

* * *

When Sherlock and John stepped into the lane going to the graveyard that had been so familiar to them for years and was always during dark occasions, they both took time to watch the cab drive away into the end of the road till it was gone. The night was chilly and Sherlock had to pull his coat closer as he turned towards the cemetery gate with curt of eyebrows. John quietly stood beside him and together, they looked at the darkness beyond the pathway, both feeling a sort of tumult at the pit of their stomachs.

"It's just like opening a Christmas present, don't you think?" Sherlock suddenly voiced out as his friend sighed beside him. "Not knowing what to expect but you know there's something?"

"You're excited." John observed with an exasperated sigh, eyes wandering around.

"Aren't you?"

"We could die tonight, you know?" John glanced at him sharply as they started moving on the path walk.

"We could." The detective answered as he began walking briskly away with hands jammed at the pocket of his dark coat, " _But not tonight."_

The street lamps were on that gave them a clear view of the vicinity isolated at that time of the night. Sherlock's eyes were looking straight ahead while John would glance every now and then behind them and on the side.

"You notice it too?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"What?" the doctor abruptly replied with a stunned look at his friend.

"The cemetery's atmosphere. It's annoying. There's not even a _mist_ to add to the thrill."

 _"Sherlock."_ John gritted his teeth as he flexed his numb fists. "Dammit, _London's just dry._ Never you mind." He looked around them again as they went on deeper till they almost reach the church. Beyond it was Sherlock's supposed grave and drawing closer made John Watson inhale deep and lick his drying lips.

"Stop fidgeting, you're distracting me." The detective snapped with a side glance at him.

"You know we're dealing with a psychopath—"

"I'm a high functioning sociopath—oh, you mean my brother?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Yes, he's got some nasty habits. Even killed my dog once. Never trusted him after."

"He killed—?"

"He's off with morals. Don't know where he got that. Mycroft's loaded of it."

"You think Mycroft knows we're here?"

" _He's sleeping, John_ —"

"No, I meant if he knows where Sherrinford is?"

"He always knows."

"You really think it's better to move without Mycroft then?"

"There's danger enough for the two of us."

John nodded with much aggressiveness and cleared his throat.

"So, any chance for a backup?" the doctor shrugged as they went pass the church towards the field where they paused by the entrance as the detective scanned the darkness. The lamps were no longer around but on the trees surrounding them and forward hung what appeared to be _blinking Christmas lights_ of white, red and blue. "If he was planning to come here all along, don't you think he would have sent his vanguards ahead?"

"We are the _vanguards."_ Sherlock narrowed his eyes and for a moment he was silent as John contemplated the answer. Then he stepped out towards the field with the doctor right behind him as he added. "And if there is a backup waiting around, don't you think they would have stopped us by now? No, it's obvious we're entering a battle field where both the hunters and tigers lie in wait to make the first pounce at the _deer._ "

 _"What? You mean to say they're watching us?"_ John hissed as he rigidly moved his body after his friend and they saw the first tombs on the field. The doctor had to look down as his feet left the pavement and touched the soil field.

"Look at the ground." Sherlock indicated the soil, "Plenty of footmarks and very recent activities..." they passed through the few tombs and the detective's eyes glanced up to the giant tree that had been his landmark and there, underneath it, with his silhouette emphasized by the fluorescent lamp behind him, was none other than his other brother. Sherlock's eyes flickered. "Seems like both the living and dead have been having a Christmas _party_."

John paused as he too, saw the man seated by the place where he knew Sherlock's fake tomb used to be.

"That sounds ominous." He whispered as he followed Sherlock again and together, the duo crossed the field towards the waiting man with the detective's strides suddenly quickening. "Sherlock—"

"It's dangerous from here onwards, John." The detective muttered without stopping, "You sure you still want to get involve in my family feud?"

"You and your drama queen brothers?" John shook his head, " _I wouldn't miss it for the world."_

Sherlock smirked. "Risking your life to protect my back? My brother? Or the country?"

_"All the same thing."_

The two got closer enough to see a better view of the third Holmes brother who seemed to be watching their every movement. That was when the two noticed the patch of earth surrounding him and then there, right across them were two pits of dug plot.

"Jesus..." John whispered as he seemed to remember something.

"Hello, Sherrinford." Sherlock addressed the man in dark suit whose face was hidden by the light behind him with bitterness and coldness John thought had reached another notch. The man suddenly stood up with hands in his pockets and it was remarkable how tall he was. Even than Mycroft.

" _Sherlock."_ Sherrinford uttered the name sounding bemused and at the same time suspicious, "This is not what I was expecting."

"You thought I was dead?" Sherlock threw at him. "No thanks to you."

" _I thought Mycroft_ would have kept you inside his box and lock you there until this was over."

"I never did like it when you two share secrets. _Or games."_

The eldest Holmes smiled and took a step closer till the tip of his toe was inches from the plots.

"I nearly forgot how stubborn you really are, Sherlock. And here I thought I've gotten rid of the one person that was holding Mycroft back and free him from being the _good_ _role model_ brother."

"If that's what you thought what Mycroft's been doing then you wasted the trip back." Sherlock smirked challengingly while John stared at the man as he recognized _his_ American accent. "To view Mycroft as a role model... _you must've gone way so bad._ Mum and dad were always upset about you."

"Where is he?"

"Locked up. _Safe from you."_

"Shouldn't you be worrying about yourself? Coming here... _undefended_ and... With additional casualty?" he suddenly eyed John who clenched his jaw at the attention. "Hello, doctor. First time we finally met."

"I don't think so." John answered with a hard look at the man.

Sherrinford could careless as he averted his eyes back to his youngest brother.

"I don't need you here, Sherlock. Mycroft wouldn't have sent you even if it kills him and especially not after what I did to you so you being here... then again, you've always been a _nuisance."_

"I kind of made it a hobby to sabotage my older brother's plan." Sherlock's eyes glinted dark, "And those who plot against him. If you want to meet my brother, _Mycroft_ , in person you're going to have to make an appointment. Through me."

"Ah." Sherrinford closed his eyes slightly as if pained, and then glanced up once more with a fake smile on his lips. "You speak _Mycroft_ ; it's funny how you two attempt to protect and destroy each other. What did you do to him this time? Knock him on the head? Tie him on a chair?"

"What about you?" Sherlock took a step forward with wide eyes, "hiding here—?"

"Not hiding." Sherrinford looked down at the detective's feet and John following his eyes frowned at what he was seeing. "Mycroft found a way to corner me in the last few hours... men rounded, escape route block... Now I'm trapped. _Trapped and desperate."_

"Sherlock—" John began softly—

"You mean desperate enough to call him here in the dark and make arrangements—?" the detective took a step forward but received a sudden jerk backwards that halted his movements—looking back he heard John shout—

_"Don't move!"_

And it became clear why as Sherlock followed where John was looking at his feet and noticed a red blinking light just at the corner of his toe. And the detective suddenly widened his gaze and saw, hidden by the earth were dozens of other blinking lights they had taken as part of the Christmas light bulbs surrounding the area. Now looking down, Sherlock then realised they weren't _just lights._

Landmines.

 _"Oh, shit."_ John muttered as he glanced around him too and saw every visible landmine kept on the ground. He felt the ground he was standing on and knew he was stepping on one. Sherlock glanced back at his brother with angry, meaningful eyes as he dug his feet on the soil where he could feel a bulge of the detonator.

Sherrinford was smiling wide.

"You lost, Sherlock. Twice. And I'm done with you, little brother. This setup was for Mycroft in case he gets disagreeable but since you spoiled the fun, I might as well come to him myself. Surprises are always part of the fun." He was about to turn away when—

"You don't need him." The detective said and took something from his pocket. "I have what you need right here."

John glanced at his friend and saw him procure the tiny red notebook he took from the British Government Head's chest pocket and dangle it in front of Sherrinford to see. The eldest Holmes looked blankly at the notebook for awhile, and then his eyes flickered as he faced his youngest again.

"Very good, Sherlock. You didn't come empty handed after all." Sherrinford then said with all attention to his little brother. "Who would have thought you'd still become useful after all this time?"

"Just another _trash_ taken to get rid of another _trash_."

"You've seen what's inside?"

_"Colossal."_

"Then you know that Mycroft's secrets and plans are all written there like a little diary?"

"Apparently my brother Mycroft still speaks in ciphers even at his doodling that made this notebook a compilation of codes." Sherlock watched warily as his eldest took step toward him again. "But given our knowledge of ciphers— _it shouldn't be difficult."_

"Again, you're being _naive."_ Sherrinford narrowed his eyes. "You have no idea how that beautiful object could strip Mycroft Holmes off his power. And I intend to proceed that way."

"Not if I can help it."

"What can you do? _You're just a boy._ Now give it to me." He reached out towards it but Sherlock, with adeptness that even took John by surprise, pulled out a gun from inside his pocket and point it on Sherrinford's temple. His eyes were resolute.

John breathed hard and he licked his lips again at the position he found the Holmes brothers in, yet somehow, the eldest Holmes didn't look too alarmed.

"That's not a toy, little brother."

 _"I'm not your brother."_ Sherlock unlocked the gun's trigger, making John's eyes widen. "I _only have one_ and he's sleeping right now with the best security around him." John smiled. "He wouldn't be able to accommodate your needs so you're going to have to settle it with me."

Silence then—

"An equitable term." Sherrinford replied drily as he eyed the detective with a sudden cold look. "But you made one mistake and that will cost you, Sherlock. _Caring for the casualties."_

John stood his ground and glowered at the eldest Holmes while Sherlock's dark eyes glinted more.

"A false threat." Came the detective's voice all of a sudden. "You think I wouldn't notice?"

"Sherlock—" John began—

"These _landmines_ I've been stepping on do not _set off_ unless the one _rigged_ as a trigger gets stepped on. We've been walking on them but nothing's happened... inference you purposely didn't put the trigger by the pathway knowing you'd like to speak with Mycroft first... no. It's not on my feet. Nor John's... and I can prove it."

Sherlock suddenly and without warning—raised his right foot as John held his breath and— _nothing._

Sherrinford smiled easily looking pleased. John felt the landmine under his feet but didn't dare move an inch.

"I'll commend your skills." The eldest Holmes nodded in approval as he eyed Sherlock, "It's true, it's nowhere near the pathway... but it's still there, waiting to be stepped on. Didn't you hear what I said about your mistake? I said _casualties._ Always work on your _plural, brother."_

He said those words exactly as he pulled out a gun from his chest pocket too—and John responded by pulling his gun as well and the three men pointed gun at one another when the party was crashed by a sweep of shadows from the dark—

 _"Hold it! Everybody put your guns down! Now!"_ came Detective Inspector Lestrade's overpowering voice and to Sherlock's horror watched dozens of Scotland Yard police swoop the area like ants coming out from different places, shoes all around and stepping on the trap—

"You think I wouldn't prepare this much in the game when I know Mycroft's got the force?" Sherrinford smirked as they all came near in one go, the red blinking lights almost disappearing at their shadows—

 _"No—No—No!"_ Sherlock shouted fiercely with John doing the same.

_"Stop moving you idiots! You're going to kill us!"_

"What?" Lestrade frowned at the two— but then a loud _beeping_ sound suddenly rang in the air that made the police, Sherlock and John to hold their breaths for the next outcome—the red blinking lights suddenly all began blinking in the same pattern that made the detective stare down as the flashes of lights and halts in the middle registered to him that could only mean a word from the _Morse Code._

Even John could read every blink but Sherlock's comprehension was super speed as the hidden message flash in his mind. Again and again it repeated the same pattern of the word:

_Die. Die. Die._

Sherrinford's eyes twinkled in the dark.

" _It's Christmas."_

* * *

Back at the hospital, Anthea was seen walking in the middle of the corridor with an unusual frown on her beautiful face. She had been trying to contact Mycroft Holmes and when she couldn't, she decided to make a stop at the last place he had been staying— with his ever in need younger brother, _Sherlock Holmes._

Before arriving she had made urgent inquiries to the security who informed her the ' _Alpha'_ hasn't left the vicinity which was strange. Mycroft would not disconnect himself now, not when things were dire and in action. So it was a big question when in the last fifteen minutes she could not get hold of him.

 _Suspicious_ would be Mycroft Holmes' term.

Therefore it was at that time that she checked her phone again and still saw it unresponsive when she arrived at the floor of the younger brother's room and found two securities in dark suits standing around. Ignoring them, she went pass the two and there upon opening the door—

_Found it empty._

* * *

_**Christmas** _

* * *

_~To be continued~_

Let's all bear gifts ;)

ONE TO GO! Thank you for the support! :D

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	15. Red

_There were no Holmes brothers inside the room._

Flabbergasted, Anthea took a moment to collect herself from the idea that the room was empty. She then checked her phone in case she missed _his call_ or his text. It has got to be Sherlock Holmes, she thought automatically as she dialled for the security service code. Either the younger Holmes did another one of his antics _or_ Mycroft himself had something to do with it. It was common for things to change course away from Mycroft Holmes' plans when Sherlock was involved— _she_ had been working under Mr. Holmes and had engaged with the detective's many _quirks_ for a long time to know that. Still, it created suspicion as she saw no message whatsoever. When such emergencies happen she would always be doing something on behalf of her boss in _utmost_ secrecy. Leaving her unattended and unsupervised was _dangerous and often considered a real cause of concern_ —and there was no reason for Mr. Holmes to go MIA especially now they were about to corner their treacherous target. So what happened?

Anthea didn't waste another breath as she quickly turned to the door to inquire with the security personnel guarding outside— the two secret service men must've seen something or perhaps secret instructions were left on them which she had to know—

Only to find the corridor also _empty._

Bewildered, the secretary held her phone tight as she confirmed it.

_Something awful just happened._

* * *

_"All of you don't move!"_

Greg Lestrade raised a hand to his people as his eyes scanned the graveyard filled with what first appeared to him to be _Christmas lights._ Only to be proven wrong with Sherlock's sudden shout as they charged in and the repeating ringing alarm somewhere made him realise an awful mistake just happened— _everybody did_. Red lights put together with recurring beeping sounds could only mean so much and the Detective Inspector had to freeze his own body as he saw the same red lights just near his toe. The red lights now didn't seem as harmless as the warm white and blues.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade began with a glance down to his feet. "What the hell...?"

 _"Don't speak..."_ Sherlock replied darkly as his eyes reflected the red blinking lights of the explosives while looking straight at his psychotic eldest brother who continued smiling at him. "If anyone of you had stepped on the trigger we all would have been blown to pieces by now. You're still alive to complain. _So don't move."_

"It's not like in the movies." John agreed with a nasty look at Sherlock's other brother, "Once you stepped on the trigger it goes off...not a second is wasted _._ "

"Alright... that's _really_ helpful." Greg turned his eyes to his men, exchange looks with the guy on his right and nodded before looking back at the lone nemesis who was the sole receiver of Sherlock's intense eyes standing meters away from him and his men. The Detective Inspector couldn't see him clearly but his tall figure was enough to make him assume he was the _mastermind_ behind London's distress. Anyone could figure that out if they were surrounded with bombs.

Sherlock now blinked his eyes with his lips compressed tightly. Sherrinford was very cool about everything.

"Look at you all." the eldest suddenly began with eyes surveying the number around him. "You're all like flies caught in a spider's web... waiting to be eaten _at the right time_. The first army Mycroft sent to be sacrificed. How I adore that brother of mine."

"Let's not assume the worst of _that brother of mine."_ Sherlock said in whisper. "And these men are the police; of course they're ready to die."

Greg blinked several times at that and licked his lips. "Sure, we'll stand guard here waiting for that."

"Who says anything about dying just yet?" his eldest said smoothly, "when this lot could just lose an arm, a leg, or a chunk of their faces...? _Suffer."_ He added in relish.

"You're really sick." John muttered with an aggravated look in his eyes. "When we're done with you I'm gonna make sure you get thrown in the deepest darkest part of a mental institution where you can rot as hell."

"Oh, _burn."_ Sherrinford grinned at John, "I didn't think you could be so imaginative when you say it like it will really happen."

" _I'll make sure of that_." The doctor grinded his teeth.

"John." Sherlock's eyes glinted daggers as he surveyed his brother. "He won't respond to simple threats like that. I believe he'd even be more delighted but he's not one to take chances on this bomb scheme. Which makes me doubt if it's a ground trigger we have to worry about?"

Sherrinford eyed his younger brother and conceded as he slipped his free hand inside his pocket and took out a pen like device with a transmitter—making everybody with guns intently reply with aggressive raise of firearms to shoulder length once more. The night air was too dry with no rustling of leaves to break the silence or to cool down the intensity boiling up at the moment.

And the detective eyed his brother's toy then back to his gloating brother.

"Don't look so relaxed." Sherrinford told him flatly, "This isn't the only trigger. Of course there's one on the ground too— _where's all the excitement if all of your meaningless lives only rest in my hand?"_

"Then you're coming with us." John said that made his friend's eyes to turn sideways at him, "You die by your design."

"Would you really, doctor? Involve these many people? I doubt you could stomach it. But I'm pretty sure Sherlock _can_." He turned to the detective again who was still quietly watching him. _"You wouldn't care about anyone now, am I right, little brother?_ You had always been the wild card with no self control—always involving other people."

"It's different when they're the one asking for it." The younger Holmes replied, "If they stand on my way I might as well _pluck them out_. I don't do well with bad chemistry."

"You and I both with Mycroft will explode well, don't you think?"

Sherlock chuckled as Sherrinford looked down the pen device smiling.

"But you're still that silly old boy who thinks gold can be found in graveyards, Sherlock. Say, doctor, how does it feel to follow people far superior than yourself?"

"Makes me feel safe to know they're on the good side." The doctor responded with a grip on his gun. "I follow them so I get to see _them_ destroy people _like you."_

Sherlock smirked dauntingly while Sherrinford's face clouded.

"Well, I suppose you haven't seen them get crushed? I saw that too coming that's why I returned." he went on with a twirl of the transmitter on his hand that made all eyes follow the object without breathing. "You're in for a surprise if you think they were untouchable. That's only Mycroft's plain view while he's blinded with his power... not knowing _there is greater power beyond his reach."_

"I hope you're not talking about yourself?" Sherlock spat, "You've been trying to kill Mycroft all this time but never succeeded. You're not as 'great' as you think yourself to be."

"I've been trying to kill him for a long time, actually, since he became a _bother._ " Sherrinford shook his head in disgust. "That's why I can't be nice, not even to my own blood. I knew not getting rid of him leaves loose ends. I never liked _loose ends."_

"That's what happens when you deal with Mycroft. _You don't get to win._ "

"Oh, but I did win once." Sherrinford raised the pen and pointed at Sherlock who frowned. " _With you."_

"What's that mean?" John quickly muttered.

"Mycroft's grown so used to death threats on regular basis that it doesn't faze him anymore. He kept chasing me. So how else do you think I retaliated? Of course the single opening to his ever _icy_ heart. _You."_

Sherlock continued looking confuse that made the eldest Holmes sigh.

" _Think_ with me, little brother. Why else do you think I even bothered with you during your college days and gave you a gift you were unable to resist? Mycroft had become so fixated with me that he _forgot about you_ — you were an easy target back then. Mycroft was always very fond of you despite the unconventional way he showed it. _So I broke you and Mycroft learnt his lesson._ _Drugs, little brother. Drugs."_ He added that made Sherlock's eye go round.

"That wasn't Mycroft's fault— I was the one—"

"It was I assure you. Seeing you break apart when he expected you to rise above others like him... _it was truly a shock for him. He was so shock he sent me to the CIA._ " He chuckled in amusement. "All the same, it was too late and I was satisfied with what I've done. Now every time he looks at you I imagine he sees me."

Sherlock stared blankly till Sherrinford smiled.

_"I made you."_

" _You bastard!"_ John blinked several times with face contorting very angrily as the held his gun with both hands, seemingly unable to contain himself, _"How could you... they're your brothers!"_

The eldest Holmes smirked and turned to Sherlock finally with a smile still plastered on his face. The brothers stared at one another for a moment, before Sherrinford raised his hand and offered it towards the detective.

"Give me the notebook, brother."

The detective gave a short pause as he watched his brother leer at him. Sherrinford was smiling as ever as he inclined his head on one side and put a hand on the side of his coat. The next thing, the detective had thrown the notebook over the plots towards his brother who caught it easily.

 _"What are you doing?"_ the doctor hissed at his partner but Sherlock ignored him, eyes fixated on the man he now chose to loathe and by all means make pay.

"He's right." The detective whispered as he watched Sherrinford check the content of the notebook. " _We lost."_

The doctor felt chills run up his spine. " _What?"_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. " _We can't play here anymore. Or dead bodies will rise."_

John glanced sideways to the Scotland Yard men and nodded at Sherlock who looked calm.

"I could just jump him now and get this over with." He muttered.

"Don't." John suddenly said in alarm as he saw the detective step forward, apparently aiming to do another one of his feats. _Calm?_ Maybe not. " _It's too risky_!"

" _Beautiful_." Sherrinford suddenly clapped the notebook close and put it securely inside his chest pocket with another turn towards the youngest Holmes. "Why Mycroft enjoys ciphers, only the three of us would understand. Him and his line of protocols had saved England many times... only..." he kissed the red notebook to Sherlock's chagrin.

That was when his body screamed of everything being over as he turned his eyes to the shadows surrounding the area. Then with one last chuckle, he began turning his back at them—resulting in another wave of clinking metal guns in the air—and the police stood on guard, eyes on their target.

Neither John nor Sherlock stopped them; they too were preparing to pull the trigger.

The eldest Holmes paused without looking back. A beat came next—

"Of course, you're all free to shoot my back." He said ominously. " _Any sacrifices count if it's for the queen and country_ , right?"

The _threat_ was _too bold._ Even Sherlock and John knew enough to believe him.

When nobody made another movement, Sherrinford began walking away with a shake of his head towards his car with its blinding headlights aimed at them. His feet left the soil ground after a few strides but his mind was no longer on the petty creatures he left behind; Mycroft somehow _disappeared_ and whether or not he resurfaced on time or not, or whether it was all part of a grand plan his brothers worked together, Sherrinford's own scheme had just began.

Especially with the lethal notebook in his hand.

He reached his car seat and took a moment to look at the red notebook with his right hand and while doing so, pressed the detonator with the other— _and the quiet graveyard exploded with a thunderous loud bang that hurtled dark smoke, ashes and fiery fire up the night sky, filling it with red and orange background. Three, four, five other explosions were heard that were music to his ears._

Sherrinford's eyes reflected the flames silently, and then he nodded at his driver to move along, all the while taking out his phone and dialling a number.

 _"_ I lost Mycroft. Be very wary, he could be plotting against..." silence came next as Sherrinford sharply looked at a distance then, "I'll be there."

He hung up without another word, eyes flickering darkly.

The final stage of his plan was coming. The _crown_ will surely be pleased of his company tomorrow.

* * *

_Mycroft opened his eyes and saw white ceiling ahead with the fluorescent light blinding him. There was a cloudy vapour above too that instantly told him he was in the hospital and that half his face was covered with oxygen mask. Gritting his teeth, the twenty three year old Mycroft Holmes grabbed the mask and removed it—taking in a lungful of air after that which was too painful to take. But then it only confirmed his first speculation—he was still alive._

_"You shouldn't do that."_

_The bedridden young man glanced weakly by the wall and saw a dark, curly sixteen year old teenager with a long face watching him with his sharp eyes, arms crossed to on his chest._

_"Sherlock." Mycroft whispered as he reached a hand to his neck and felt his buttons open. Wherever did he put his tie?_

_Silence fell in the room and for a moment, Mycroft thought his younger brother was a figment of his mind palace. Only that, when he opened his eyes next, he found his younger brother still watching him fixedly with deep set eyes and angry frown. Mycroft had always found it amusing how delinquent his little brother had been looking these days... but then they do always go through that phase. 'Adolescents'._

_"It was the chamber maid who found you lying on the floor of your room." Sherlock suddenly found his voice, his back attached to the wall as Mycroft decided to stare at the ceiling, the memory of what occurred flooding his vision, "She thought you were dead."_

_"Feels like it." The older Holmes muttered as he closed his eyes with another reach towards his neck for his tie but it wasn't there. Damn tie._

_"Mum and dad are outside," his younger brother went on, "the doctor says it was only fatigue. They didn't find anything in your system."_

_"Didn't they?" Mycroft opened his eyes slowly. "What do you think?"_

_"I think you've been poisoned."_

_Mycroft fell silent with his face turning grim. Sherlock finally left the wall and walked towards the bedside, eyes full on his brother's pale features. There was that glint in his eyes that Mycroft always liked to see— sharp and knowing, not gullible and never weak. As usual the energy of his little brother always affects him. Those traits would surely make him survive in the changing times, this little brother of his._

_"Poisoned?" Mycroft suddenly smiled despite his disposition._

_"Weak pulse, discolouration of eyes, rigid limbs and shortness of breath added with the fact that your neck is irritable... you keep on reaching for it. You drank water before collapsing; I saw the empty bottle and glass."_

_"You've been in my flat."_

_"I'm the only one who got a spare key to it."_

_"Well..." Mycroft found strength to finally push himself from the bed to stare at his younger brother in the eye. "Then I'm lucky I survived—it's always the fall a collapsing person has to look out for."_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes._

_"You're not planning to report this, big brother?"_

_"I don't see the reason why."_

_"You know who's behind it?"_

_Mycroft looked blankly about and didn't speak which only made his younger brother look suspiciously at him._

_"You're an idiot if you don't report this, brother—"_

_"Are you going to tell mum?" Mycroft wanted to know and the look he gave the teenager was enough to receive a glare back. "You didn't tell them earlier, I don't see the point why you should mention it now."_

_Sherlock clenched his jaw with his lips compressing in disapproval._

_"I might just tell them to spoil your fun." The teenager shrugged convincingly._

_Mycroft looked down at the IV drip on his wrist and shook his head._

_"Don't do it. I have it under control."_

_"Collapsing on the floor is under your control. You're not still after that government position, are you? I read those papers on your desk. Are you building up an army of enemies? Like your undergrad university isn't enough?"_

_"Obviously."_

_Silence greeted Mycroft next. Upon looking up he saw his brother still watching him with his dark eyes._

_"I'll give you six years, half a month and three days you won't last that long." Sherlock noted darkly that only made the older Holmes look at him for awhile, before finally chuckling and accepting the challenge._

_"You only say so because I look weak now. Observe well, Sherlock—I think it's nine years, four months, two days and fifteen hours. It'll be by heart attack if I don't watch my weight by then."_

_Sherlock's eyes glinted._

_"You're on." He muttered and the two brothers stared at one another for awhile before the younger one spoke again. "Is your job that dangerous? Do people actually poison young, 'ambitious' secretaries like you in the government?"_

_"I can't tell you that."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because it's not your concern."_

_"But it's much more intriguing than Billy Adam's missing rattler."_

_"Is that how you spend your summer these days?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow in alarm much more on the fact that the activity was tedious than dangerous. Sherlock ignored the question and nod at his older brother._

_"I saw clips on your desk about 'him' too. You know who. What's going on between the two of you? Why aren't you telling me anything?"_

_Mycroft's face turned dismal. "From here onwards, Sherlock, you're not to ask me of my business, is that clear?"_

_"Why?"_

_"It's not for stupid people..."_

The memory was as clear as daylight to Mycroft Holmes as he was pulled away from his memory palace into the present as he stirred from where he was seated _._ The British government head blinked his eyes and adjusted it to the light of the room he was in. His mind easily jolted him back to his last memory and this room was not part of it, unless Sherlock brought him somewhere else.

But the silhouette of people around him didn't seem anything like his brothers nor do they look friendly. As a matter of fact, Mycroft suddenly became aware of the fact that he was _in that place— the target place of his hiding enemy._

How in the blazes he ended up there when he only remembered getting a shot from his brother on the neck inside the hospital, Mycroft could only make speculations. The last thing he needed however was awakening in the middle of another group of captive that never seemed to leave him alone for the love of all surprises. _Unwittingly,_ this time.

" _Stupid Sherlock."_ He muttered to himself with eyes tightly closing that ended up with him looking half irritable and half exasperated. He was still getting a little dizzy... The things he goes through because of his little brother...

* * *

_A minute before the explosion._

Sherlock' eyes flickered as he watched his brother walking away confidently with both hands inside his pocket, crossing the darkness of the graveyard towards the blinding light which had been behind him all along. It turned out to be a dark car with its headlights on that lurked around, waiting for its master.

The detective then wasted no time as he glanced at the soil for the trigger— _any moment then and his psychotic brother might blow everything up._ Everyone else felt the same as Lestrade began shouting orders to the men on his right—

"Quick! Where the hell's that detonator?"

"Don't move! Let Sherlock find it!" John turned to the Detective Inspector who raised a hand as five of his men began moving, nearly making John's heart skip a beat. That was when the doctor noticed all of them were wearing armed, thick, bullet proof vest. That would never save them _there._

"It's alright— _they're part of the bomb squad."_ Lestrade informed them that made Sherlock's eyes glinted as he knelt just by the two plot holes. "Your brother had ordered us here all along expecting this but _what the hell were you playing at, Sherlock? You were never part of this."_

"I don't need permission." He muttered and then without warning—Sherlock suddenly disappeared—as he jumped on to the _plot_ without a warning— making his best friend's heart skipped another beat.

" _Jesus_..." John breathed as he shook his head while the detective busily looked over the dirt high and above. "You—you sure that's safe, Sherlock?"

The detective ignored them with eyes darkening at every side of the earth. It was dark with only the blinking lights to support but he was able to finally trace and unearthed a cord. John watched the detective with his breath held.

"Call the bomb squad, John." Sherlock muttered as he followed the cords going upward and found a tiny screen device at the end of it. He looked around the hole and saw no other trace while the doctor called the men. "You really take no chance do you, brother?" he whispered to himself.

Two men in the armed vest suddenly jumped behind Sherlock with their flash lights on guns and shoulder pads. One of them quickly worked on the cords and the device while someone passed over a box with tools. The detective moved aside knowing the time was of the essence.

"Where's that lunatic brother of mine?" he turned up to John.

"Inside his car." John muttered with eyes on the road.

"It's about time he blows us up. _No pressure._ " He turned to the bomb squad men who were all pulling a string from the earth after another with swift fingers Sherlock would have commended them at except seconds were counting in his mind. Then the first snap of the cutter came and all the red glowing lights disappeared—

"What—?" John muttered from above as Sherlock looked at the bomb expert.

"That's the trigger on the land bombs," the man said without looking back as his hand traced the other line of cords in red and blue. "But the remote can still set it off."

"Tell them to clear the area!" Sherlock shouted agitatedly but John didn't have to repeat it as Greg bellowed the words to his men—exactly as three beeping sound was heard on the device—and Sherlock knew it was too late and looked at John who was then pushed together by the three armed bomb squad men down the plot hole who covered the detective and the doctor—

_And a deafening explosion blasted away the air with hot fumes and heat wave that destroyed everything._

Minutes passed and only silence greeted the flaming air.

Sounds of siren could be heard from afar.

Then came coughs and shouts, then scurrying feet. More shout amidst the dark.

The next thing, Sherlock had pushed himself away from the dirt and shook his head with his sensitive ears still ringing with the explosion. He looked around him once he steadied himself and found the bomb squad already on their feet and clambering above grounds while John shook his head as he sat on the soil completely nonplussed.

They were saved by the plot holes.

"You alright, Sherlock?" the doctor blinked with right hand covering his right ear. "I can't... I can't hear myself..."

Sherlock stood up and hoisted himself up to the level ground calling Lestrade's name. The doctor shook his head again, before standing up and following his friend out of the grave— to find half the ground almost gone with the fire being extinguished by men after men. John stared at the crate he had just been standing on a minute ago before he was pushed down the plot hole that saved their lives.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." the doctor breathed as he suddenly stood beside the detective who was watching the Scotland Yard police attend to the injured men, counting casualties if there were any. Detective Inspector Lestrade emerged out of the group of police surrounding him with blood trickling down his left side of head as he walked towards the two.

John strode towards him without a word.

"Greg!" the doctor called loudly, meeting the detective inspector half way. "You're wounded!"

"It's fine. Got blown to a rock on the ground. You both alright?" the inspector asked, almost shouting as he glanced at his men. "Found five of my guys unconscious but there were pulses; one broke a leg and the others just minor injuries since we're all wearing protective gears. The guys ran away like it's their last, I never saw them dash like that during training." He was still shouting loudly even though they were an arm apart, "How are you guys standing?"

"The plot." John shouted back and shook his head, "I still can't quite hear you—my ears are hurting."

"Lend me a car." Sherlock suddenly said without another pause as he eyed the detective inspector.

Lestrade took one look at Sherlock's resolute face while John stared at his friend. It was apparent that no time was to be wasted given the circumstances.

"Alright, fine." He said with a sigh. "But I want that man alive, you got that, Sherlock?" he added when the detective had turned around without a word and was already crossing the half open earth.

_"Don't count on it."_

_"Sherlock!"_

"You guys will be alright?" John asked with half his body about to follow his friend.

"Sure." Greg licked his lips again with eyes on the detective. "Will you guys be?"

"Just do something about your head."John replied, already on the trail of the detective who was moving quickly with hands jammed on his pocket. "Sherlock wait— _dammit!"_ he called as he felt his phone vibrate on his pocket and rummaged for it. Looking at the screen, John blinked and went after his friend quickly. "It's—it's Mycroft's secretary—why—why is she calling me?"

"I lost my phone."

"Yeah, but she cannot pin me over the assault of her boss, right? Yes hello?" John answered as he exchanged looks with the detective, "Yeah, I'm with him... we? We're in a safe place. _No, of course not, we don't know where Mycroft is—absolutely no clue."_ He shook his head with too-honest expression as he listened more. "Uh, no... He didn't tell us anything... no, Sherlock left the hospital because he's feeling fine, you know him—he's rechargeable... we don't have— _no idea..._ " Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Wait, what do you mean the room's empty? Where did you say you were again?"

Sherlock halted his steps with frown forming on his forehead.

* * *

 _"Who is she?"_ came a disinterested voice from the dark the moment she stepped inside the room after being dragged roughly by the elbow. She snatched her arm away with a nasty look at her captor and looked around a high ceilinged room with bright chandelier in the middle and six high pillars standing at the corners lit up by two more bright lights by the end wall. The velvet carpet covered the entire room with matching red curtains hanging by the windows and in the middle of it all was a long, rectangular handsome table with five chairs at each side. Then her eyes fell on the man inquiring for her who was seated at the head of a rectangular table with the tallest chair, face unconcealed that told her this was no ordinary person trying to intimidate her— _this man meant business._

She decided to give him her full attention, eyes raw on his every movement.

"She tried to stop us from taking Mr. Holmes, sir. We found him sound asleep by his brother's bed."

"Asleep at times like this? That's something new." The unknown man smirked with eyes lingering on Mary. "Why bring her?"

"She said she was a nurse, she had an identification card on her. Mr. Holmes apparently had collapsed because of health issues so we took her for good measure."

"We're going to kill him anyways. And the real guards outside the room?"

"Disposed of."

"The cameras?"

"Confiscated and burned."

"And? What of Mycroft Holmes?"

"He just woke up from the other room. We brought her in to make you decide what to make of her now that he's awake?"

The unknown man raised his hands covered in whitegloves to his lip and Mary's eyes narrowed at him.

"We don't need her." He said quietly as he leaned back on his chair, "Kill her."

Mary's eyes slowly turned daggers towards the man and she was about to defend herself so naturally by planning to pull the gun from the man beside her when the door opened and there, standing as solid as rock was Mycroft Holmes in the same dark suit and _dark eyes_ who took one good look at the room, raised an eyebrow at her direction as if knowing exactly what she was planning, before his eyes fell on the man in the middle of the table.

" _There you are_." Murmured the guy with glowering eyes as it transfixed itself to the British Government Head. "Always the spoiler of nights, _Mycroft Holmes."_

Mycroft inhaled a breath and with one final shut of his eyes, he walked inside the room and stopped at the right edge of the table, standing a few steps from Mary who was watching him.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft." She began with a shake of her head

"It's... quite understandable." Mycroft replied drily as he let his eyes feast on the man he scrutinized.

Mary nodded once that made the older Holmes pressed a small sigh that clearly said— _Sherlock will most definitely not hear the end of this!_ The way he looked made Mary realise he was serious in making his brother's ears hurt—that or all his silent emitted anger was overflowing towards the man across him.

"I suppose I missed the invitation." Mycroft began addressing the unknown man, "Finding myself suddenly drugged at the most critical moments do certainly raise red lights of mayhem. I wonder if my brother really understands the true meaning of... _plans blowing up._ He's truly a slayer, my brother..."

"You don't seem surprise to find yourself here though, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in a familiar fashion. "Having to act ' _surprise'_ has always been the hardest part for me. It's you lot who can't seem to conceal your surprise at _my surprise."_

The man chuckles for a second, but then it disappeared as he looks up dark eyes boring on the British Government Head.

"Just as expected of Mr. Holmes. It seems you really are the man behind our failure."

"What failure?" Mary found her voice as she frowned at the men. She was able to follow the few exchange between the two but the hints were no longer enough to make any heads or tails. Mycroft, who had been standing with both hands on his sides as he tried to flex them away from the numbing result of the recent drug, turned an eye at her and then shift back to the unknown man.

"I would have apologised for this, Mrs. Watson," he went on, "but that's not really my area of expertise. However, to make amends to you who seemed to have been dragged into this because of your insistence to come along on Sherlock's behalf of me, allow me to enlighten you of some of the facts of what I have been calling... _The Line Protocol."_

* * *

 _"Line Protocol?"_ John Watson said with a distracted look as he heard their car's tire screeched as it manoeuvred to the left with his entire body swinging along the car seat—"Sherlock— _Sherlock—!"_ John's right hand grabbed the side of the car window on the passenger corner while his other took hold of the back of the driver's seat. They were inside a police car racing with time as it went pass other vehicles in speed of light; flashes of other headlights came by in a blink, angry horning blasts at their ears and all John could think of was how glad he was the seatbelt was working fine or he would have hurtled in the air at how fast his detective friend was going. " _Christ—you're going to get Greg in trouble!"_

"We just saved him the trouble of dying, he should feel _appreciative._ " Sherlock answered as he _distractedly_ focused on the road. "No, John. Let's not waste a minute when Mycroft needs backup." He turned another corner—making the doctor grit his teeth.

"What's with this _Line Protocol_? How are you bringing it up now?" the doctor said as he remembered the words from a previous encounter back at Belfast when he was held captive by a group of terrorist who incidentally mentioned the code. He clearly remembered Mycroft turning the shade of white when he heard it and now that it was mentioned, he couldn't help thinking that the British Government head had _failed_ to mention something so important again. And now he was gone. " _How_ the hell did he disappear? And why is _my wife also missing!?"_

"You were there, you just weren't listening, John—didn't you hear Sherrinford mention it just now? _He said Line Protocol. You can't have missed it, what were you listening at?"_

"Well, in case you didn't remember— _we were just standing in the field of mines!"_

"A lot of stuff is happening at the same time. We were careless." the detective muttered to himself scathingly as he turned on a corner seconds before the red light appeared that nearly cost a bump scratch on a cab heading on their left but Sherlock ignored it. " _Too many enemies working together against my brother. Sherrinford knew that and he's taking advantage of it"_

 _"You_ were careless _."_ John was unsympathetic as he grudgingly looked ahead. " _Who the hell tranquilizes their own brother?_ "

"Ah, now it's my fault?" Sherlock threw his friend a look, "Mycroft was the one hiding—"

"I don't care how many secrets he was hiding but the fact that you _knew people were still after him and you left him with my wife—that I take very seriously, Sherlock."_

"Have some faith, John. You know she's not a pushover—"

"Same as I know she isn't suppose to get hurt or _be in danger!"_

"Then the jokes on you!" Sherlock retorted, eyes suddenly flashing daggers at his partner. " _We are in danger—everyone around us is in danger! But you know she can handle herself—"_

_"For Christ sake, look at the goddamn road!"_

Sherlock pulled the brakes over with the tires screeching loudly and the car nearly toppled to the side in the middle of the highway with its two passengers colliding back at their seats. And the two breathed heavily as Sherlock made an annoyed clicking of his tongue and began the engine once more.

"She'll be fine." He whispered after with eyes on the road. "And Mycroft won't let anything happen to her."

John looked at the window with eyes glinting, but after a few seconds he sighed and turned to the detective.

"You said 'many enemies'. Who is it this time? If it's not your lunatic eldest brother—"

 _"I think it's a thread,"_ Sherlock answered with a narrowed look in his eyes, "with Mycroft also tugging the other end of the string."

"What?"

"Sherrinford didn't seem to be connected with their disappearance—not if what he said was true that all his men had been rounded up... but from what Mycroft's secretary had said even security personnel were involved, camera footages disappeared _—_ it's down to the _last card_ of people who could pull _mightier power than my brother_."

John's face turned incredibly expressive with wide eyes of complete surprise. A _mightier power than Mycroft Holmes?_

"You don't say—"

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed it as he glance at his friend meaningfully. "If there's an order in hierarchy, Mycroft will only be as under as the Prime Minister. Who else is above them?"

"What's that mean!? So where are we heading?"

Sherlock sped up the car with eyes once again glinting in menace.

_"Buckingham Palace."_

* * *

"Take a seat, Mr. Holmes. You look like you're about to collapse."

Mycroft took a moment to close his eyes as he felt his weak limbs but he did not sit down. Instead he opened his eyes with newly revive glints that made the unknown man chuckle. The _bloody tranquilizer_ , Mycroft thought as he sighed impatiently and clenched his jaw before responding in a severe manner.

"Ask the lady to sit down."

 _"I'm not sitting down."_ Mary crossed her arms as she eyed the unknown man with the most annoyed look. Without warning, she suddenly threw Mycroft a glance. "Who the heck is he?"

" _He is a butler._ " The British Government Head began that startled the man and made him sit straight in the process.

" _How_ —?"

"The precise manner you carry yourself around the head—shoulder and chest— the position of your arms always hung by your ribs on your left side. You are wearing a dark blazer which I expect to see too neat sparkling black shoes that indicate indoor activities and being thorough. And you're still wearing your _whitegloves_ —it's almost a dead giveaway. Butlers these days do not need to wear their uniforms to show discretion, which would mean you are _on-_ duty and is taking order from someone with a high status in society. To be specific— _somebody in the royal family._ " He added as he craned his neck on the left and still felt the numbing feeling around the area. "Of course, no one else but members of the _family_ knows who I am. As who you _really are_ —you are Carmichael Fischer from Switzerland serving the current _Earl—I should know, I have a complete list of everyone in the royal family and their servers in my mind_... and that's the only connection I needed... You didn't think I wouldn't notice?"

He raised the question so testily that made those around him shift in their feet in shock, like children with their misdoings exposed right before it even began—and Mycroft always _enjoyed_ those moments as he carried on speaking— "If you truly know who I am then you know what I do with my power? I am the central exchange of this government— _I command everything_. The Protocols I make are specific and particular to group of people. The Queen's family is not excused. If I give a code for one of their security it always comes in many names depending on who will be involved in it so that when it gets exposed to others I know exactly who to hunt. When the royal family speaks of their security, especially the security of the grandchildren—they mention it as _Line Protocol._ No other people should use it."

He closed his eyes awhile and there—like the whole universe opening in his _mind palace_ — _information floated like stars in the galaxy but in order of orbits—vast and infinite._ When he opened them his eyes twinkled of knowledge.

"So the moment the _Line Protocol_ broke free from the mouth of outsiders I knew _that one of the Queen's family members is behind the treason... No, for the Secret Service men they call this the 'Air Operation'_ down to the specific letter. The Prime Minister and his cabinet members call it ' _Heir Prevention._ ' It all goes down to the code that I can identify where _threats would come from and expose them._ Do you know where we are, Mrs. Watson?" he suddenly turned to John's wife who blinked a moment before nodding her head.

"Kensington Palace."

"Indeed." Mycroft suddenly took a step forward, an action that made the two men behind him took each side of his arm but the British Government Head was undaunted as he continued, "This is our Kings' and Queens' royal residence and subsequently became the 'home' to their children with its many wings of apartments allotted for the heir to the throne. This specific room we are in is the _Red Saloon_ where Queen Victoria first held her privy council... The _Duke and Duchess_ of Cambridge and their family all reside here... The moment I realised the Line Protocol has been compromised, the removal of the family had been my top priority ever since my return. Kensington Palace had been empty of the last twelve hours and that's probably why we find ourselves here, comfortably 'chatting' about what I consider _treason._ The _Earl_ must have realised too that _I know he was behind this. So he wants me out of the picture."_

"So we were all playing in your palms?" Fischer looked so unhinged that even with his well-trained manner of intimidation he still stared blankly at the British government head for a long time, before glancing to his men and nodding.

Mycroft, now in full faculty of his fists, glared at the men and his dark eyes were nowhere near kind.

" _Playing... falling in the trap... it's all the same."_

There was no response for awhile as the uncomfortable butler looked at him through the mirror.

"Is that the only thing you—?"

" _No."_ Mycroft assured them with eyes narrowing. They were the provocative sort, especially at trying times where time was of utmost importance. " _The question you all should be wondering about now is how to answer the wrath of the Queen. We have been preparing for this."_

"Then the more reason we cannot let you live." The other man beside him suddenly said in a matter of fact tone and Mycroft heard the unlocking of the trigger. It was easy enough to identify him: a _security person. Hired underground. Assassin._

Mycroft gave him an affronted look but kept silent as his eyes turned to Mary who gave him a meaningful look.

"I'm afraid it's too late." Mycroft turned to the now standing butler. " _The Duke of Cambridge_ is very _displeased."_

" _That is why I took the liberty of really getting my hands on this notebook."_

Mary nearly snapped her neck as she turned a look towards the doorway while Mycroft Holmes was seen closing his eyes tightly and giving a long sigh before slowly turning behind him and locking gaze with none other than his _least favourite brother._

_"Sherrinford."_

* * *

"It's Buckingham," John was heard saying as he kept his hands at the back of Sherlock's car seat to avoid getting thrown around in his seatbelt at how fast they were going with his eyes looking at the road way. Ahead of them was the Buckingham palace gate, lit up by corner lights and guards standing at its corners. "We're here."

Sherlock kept silent as he scanned the area.

"This is not the place where we are supposed to be now that I think of it."

"What's that mean?"

 _"Line Protocol,_ John."

To which the doctor bristled angrily—"You've been telling me that damn word and not explain it! _Tell me what that is or god help me—"_

"The line of heirs to the throne, John!" Sherlock replied equally, "Buckingham Palace maybe the centre stage of the royals but the Duke and Duchess lives elsewhere!"

"You mean Kensington?" the doctor blinked as he understood, "Then what are we waiting for? Let's turn this car around!"

A few seconds later, the doctor realised the car wasn't slowing down—

"Sherlock?"

"Do you know what makes our police car so _valuable,_ John _?"_

"No," the doctor suddenly turned an apprehensive look towards the detective's way, knowing full well Sherlock's voice when it was near in saying, ' _Vatican Cameos'_ in subtext— " _Sherlock—?"_

And the detective took hold of the gear lever and shifted gears in another jolting speed— the car went on full hustle and before the doctor knew it he was thrown backwards so hard he had to shut his eyes and mouth so as not to bite his tongue— and the police car went crashing headfirst into the Buckingham Palace gate that threw the two giant metals down the ground with dusts wafting in the air, creating dents on their otherwise still intact vehicle.

A second to take their breathes and then John was hollering—

_"HAVE YOU GONE MAD!?"_

Loud warning bells came next that flooded their eyes with red lights from the palace security and without a word, Sherlock geared the car backwards, made a sharp turn and was on the road again with sirens blasting in the air after their wake.

_"WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT?"_

Sherlock looked at the side mirror and saw the force behind them. He smiled.

"A payback." He muttered to himself as he sped up another kilometre. "For always putting my brother in danger."

John gave an exasperated sigh.

* * *

Red

* * *

**_~The unexpected to be continued~_ **

I honestly tried to 'squeeze' all here but I failed miserably!

It just won't do!^^

SO OFF TO A FINAL PUSH! Bear with me xD

And the delay is all thanks to my sudden addiction to the Hillywood Show Parody of SHERLOCK!

God, them sisters are BLOODY AWESOME!

Thank you for the support! :D

_**Thanks for reading!** _


	16. Fallen

_**"You'll know it at your finger tips. That it is an end."** _

* * *

_Sometime in the past..._

_"You have to die."_

_Mycroft didn't even blink as he broke this news casually to his younger brother who was seated across him wearing his thick bundle of a coat and with a very solemn look on his face. A bottle of red wine and glasses were in between them on the elegant table— to settle the nerves—as the older brother explained when he offered it to his junior. They were inside Mycroft's private lodgings at Pall Mall, at the study room where the fireside was lit for it was the middle of the night. It didn't come as a surprise for the older Holmes when his younger brother came seeking him; he had just returned from the Secret Service quarters when he received a call from Sherlock telling him he was waiting inside his older brother's house. This didn't seem as a surprise either for Mycroft had supplied his brother a spare key to save himself the trouble of always changing locks and resetting burglar alarms whenever his younger brother felt like picking on his doors on a whim._

_A sigh of relief escaped Mycroft's lips however upon finding his brother inside his house for Sherlock never comes to him when he was in deep waters—no. Not to ask for help, never. But Mycroft had trusted his brother was wise enough to recognize danger and seek assistance from someone he so detest. Logically speaking, it was a justified strategy of people with a common enemy._

_And all because Jim Moriarty had reached new heights in his lunacy—the breaking in on the Tower of London, the crown, bank robberies, key codes and now seemingly... a new identity._

_Mycroft was only half listening as his brother relayed how Moriarty had visited him at 221B after his release to leave his key code; how the man was involved with the US Ambassador's two children's abduction and how things ended with him—Sherlock—being the prime suspect and that nobody was believing him anymore. Mycroft's expression was anything but sympathetic as he kept silent. Naturally he knew Moriarty's visit to Sherlock after the trial. It took him all ounce of patience not to order his people to swarm the area at moment's notice. Leaving the key code however, now that was something he needed to confirm. So that's why those assassins roamed the perimeter... and 'Get Sherlock'._

_Mycroft unconsciously ran his right, index finger to his lips. There was also the matter with the US Ambassador... the CIA had been ringing him since the day started. No doubt the attack was now a national crisis._

_Then Sherlock went on about how Lestrade came with a warrant of arrest but the detective of course didn't make things easy and had escaped with John and the two of them were now fugitives. What more after breaking in to the house of a journalist they found some Richard Brook aka Moriarty faking everything including what Sherlock believed to be his brother's connection to the crime—his life story._

_Now with the force of London at his back and Moriarty twisting facts to fabrications, there was only one path for Sherlock to take— confront his older brother. It was then that Mycroft found himself saying the exact words to his younger brother without much as a blink._

_"Yes, brother, die. Someone has to." He looked up at Sherlock with dead eyes of someone explaining that one plus one takes two. "You wouldn't have come to me if you hadn't realised that obvious ending coming your way. Moriarty is serious in bringing upon your destruction—don't tell me I didn't warn you— and he won't stop until he does so. The only solution is for you to humour him... or everyone else will fill the graveyards."_

_"How the hell did that even happen under your nose?" Sherlock threw in casually. "The Tower of London's on your jurisdiction."_

_The sharp question caught Mycroft off guard that made both his eyebrows to fly up._

_"It's fairly obvious—it's a conspiracy of silence." The older Holmes snapped with a heavy frown. "Spies in the MOD, Secret Service... I'll give this one to Moriarty. You can't bring a mountain down but you can infest rats inside it."_

_"Sure. Or you've been busy doing your work 'protecting the royal family'?"_

_"That too—I personally made sure he was unable to get there." The British Government Head tapped his finger once on the table and threw Sherlock a look. "So left with no choice he placed hands on the US Ambassador's children."_

_"You mean he is distracting you?"_

_"Distracting me to get to you without interference—he must be behind those vital inscriptions and codes I have been receiving lately too as a distraction—anyways you're here and that's all that matters. The only thing left for us to do is to kill you without actually making it permanent."_

_"You sound disappointed."_

_"Don't start with me." Mycroft glared with a glance at his clock. "Moriarty's been so fixated at you that make me doubt if he's working with others. I think it's really only about the two of you with the nation as the collateral. What a devilish fan you've got brothermine. And no doubt—utterly deadly insane."_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent agreement as the older Holmes kept his watch inside his pocket saying—_

_"We have exactly thirty minutes to plan this timely death, Sherlock, I want you to focus."_

_"That's more than enough—if I die, I die—"_

_"Sherlock!"_

_The brothers caught each other's eyes and for a moment, Mycroft felt a hot steam of anger go up his face and out to his ears. It was rare for him to genuinely feel angry but when he does it was always with a tightening around his chest. The sudden eruption seemed to surprise the younger Holmes who looked at him with curt eyebrows._

_And Mycroft sighed and took the glass of wine on the table._

_"I should be very glad if all of this is over, brothermine." He drank it all up in one go._

_"Why?" Sherlock snapped from nowhere, "Because I'm bothering you?"_

_"You know that's not—" Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation— "Do I really have to spell it—?"_

_"If you mean you suddenly decided to 'care' don't you think you could have done that a little earlier?"_

_"What?" the older Holmes looked puzzled as ever at the attack as Sherlock went on quick—_

_"You knew what was happening— you knew Lestrade and his gang were to arrest me— you could have saved me the trouble! Why didn't you interfere like you usually do?"_

_The British government head paused awhile blankly then, "Because I didn't. I let them. I actually told the inspector it's fine when he called me."_

_A contemptuous look appeared on the detective's face as his suspicion was confirmed. "Why?"_

_"To keep you safely locked up inside bars while I take the matter at hand."_

_"You wish. You had your chance with Moriarty—you missed it—why take it away now?"_

_"Because I made a grievous mistake."_

_"Ah." Sherlock's eyes twinkled and a smile nearly spread on his lip at the prospect of his older brother committing one, "A mistake from Mycroft Holmes. How devastating—"_

_"You have no idea."_

_"Is it the key codes?"_

_Mycroft grunted and fished something inside his chest pocket. "Who needs his key codes when I have this?" he raised his red notebook offhandedly and rested it on the table. "No, brothermine, something I missed from Moriarty is the same thing you are missing in all of this right now."_

_"And what's that?"_

_"Faith, dear brother." Mycroft flexed a fake smile at his junior that made the detective stare. "Do you really believe I would sell you out to a well known enemy?"_

_Sherlock's whole expression changed as he stared at his brother again with wide eyes and parted lips. Mycroft's had become darker and sombre as he eyed the red notebook._

_"I would never do that." He paused for awhile with eyes blank as apparent memory came flashing in his mind's eye. Then he continued, "Which begs the question who else could possibly know your past aside from me...neither our parents of course...so... who else?"_

_The pieces of puzzle being put together was not difficult for the detective to follow as he shut his eyes close and things began stirring in his mind palace that could only point to one person. The next thing Sherlock had snapped his eyes open and sucked in some air as he threw his older brother a perplexed look._

_"You mean he's back?"_

_By 'he' there was only one they meant._

_"Not entirely." Mycroft met his brother's eyes to confirm the statement. "My sources tell me he has not left the States since his escape from Washington. Thus, my grievous error in thinking he could do no harm in the distance of the Atlantic. I am proven wrong. He is behind Moriarty, if not a part of it. He will be coming back though... trust it."_

_The look the British Government Head gave his younger brother was enough to freeze any of his associates, but Sherlock having been accustomed to such a look only straightened his hold at the idea that his lost brother had some hand with his business with Moriarty. But the revelation seemed to ease something on the detective's mind who went on more gently with his older brother this time._

_"Why—?"_

_"I don't want you to worry about him just now." The older Holmes then cleared his throat as he straightened on his chair. "He's mine. What I want you to focus on is how to survive your own death. It warrants that you be the one to set the stage and not Moriarty. Only through that can we be confident that things won't go south. You have to bait Moriarty in a place you will decide."_

_"I know how to lure him to me." Sherlock's eyes glinted sharply. "He's left a message I still need to decode. If I figure that out then the curtain rises for our meeting— he wouldn't suspect—"_

_"Oh, he will." Mycroft said sceptically. "He's not just deranged—he's a genius. He'll have a gun he can just kill you—how do you stir away from that?"_

_"That's my business, isn't it?" Sherlock told his brother with a flat stare, "But I decide the stage."_

_"What would it be?"_

_Sherlock paused for awhile, mind palace all too swift, eyes obviously in deep thoughts. Then with widening eyes, he breathed out his plan._

_"Falling."_

_Mycroft stared at his brother quietly as he gave him a narrowed look. He seemed unconvinced for awhile as he reached out for the wine bottle, filled his glass again and took a sip from it with undivided attention to his brother till he leaned back on his chair, eyes full on his brother._

_"A grand exit for the world's greatest detective... pray tell how you propose to...fall?"_

_"I have a general idea. Moriarty would be looking forward to something flashy so it should be someplace where plenty of eyes will see to make it believable... I'll really have to jump."_

_"So you do." The older Holmes narrowed his eyes._

_"I need experts, Mycroft, I need cooperation..." his younger brother went on as he quietly placed his puzzles in his mind palace, before finally looking up to his older brother again. "I need your..." he stopped in midair._

_Mycroft caught his brother's eyes._

_"Will you help me?" Sherlock finished softly._

_The older Holmes smiled easily. "What else am I here for? What are you up to?"_

_Sherlock gave him a quick sketch of his plan starting from the location to the last man he required. Minutes passed as Mycroft listened to his brother and raised eyebrows at some ridiculous part but he remained silent all the same—suggesting that it was plausible just as Mycroft got distracted and slipped his hand to his vibrating phone and raised an eyebrow at the caller._

_"John's calling. My agents tell me he's on his way to Diogenes. Probably to confront me regarding your background leakage and this Richard Brook exposé." He pressed his lips and put the phone on his table with eyes shifting to his brother. "He will be very disagreeable, Sherlock. You know how intense he gets when it's about you."_

_"At least he's showing something." Sherlock muttered with a glint in his eye, "Unlike you who seem to enjoy seeing me crawl under barb wires and all."_

_"You're the one who likes to crawl under barb wires and all." Mycroft corrected as he leaned back on his chair to have a full look on his brother in the face. "You are really doing this, aren't you?"_

_"All it takes to end this once and for all."_

_A moment of silence as the two half glared, half watched each other. Then Mycroft stood up and walked past the table while the younger Holmes put both hands together in a similar fashion when he was thinking deeply and for a moment he was lost to the world—immersing himself to his mind palace with such focus that only got diverted when the phone on the table began vibrating again. It made Mycroft, who had been standing by the fireside to walk back the table._

_"John's at the Diogenes. He can be very persistent at times. It's actually trying." The British Government Head snatched the phone to his inside pocket and looked his brother in the eye again. "All the resources we will need will be sent forth immediately—men, cars, work force—I will be at the other end of this to make sure nothing goes wrong. So I suggest your first destination is with Molly Hooper—you know your way to dead bodies anyways what with that fake beheaded Irene Adler—what—you think I wouldn't notice?"_

_Sherlock flashed him a grin just as Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took his wine glass—to settle his nerves—and drank it all in one straight up again. He then rounded on his favourite chair where his overcoat was hanging to put it on, then he grabbed his suitcase and secured his umbrella. Finally he surveyed his younger brother again._

_"Don't mess your jump, Sherlock or that's the first and last one you'll ever do. I have to meet John and misdirect him—"_

_"Are we not telling him?"_

_"You already know the answer to that the moment you entered that door alone. It's times like this that you benefit on being alone. Being alone can protect more people. No, Sherlock, you know faking death would only be much believable if people closer to you believe it. Of course, no one can observe me, mum and dad has to know this or they'll create such a ruckus in the family about me not taking care of you—"_

_"Why is it about you—?"_

_"—plus working in the 'shadows' can benefit you."_

_"Again—that's all you. Why don't you add 'be like me'?"_

_Mycroft glowered. "Such humour when you are in a dire situation. Be serious. You know Moriarty's not alone."_

_There was another short pause as the detective glanced at his brother._

_"Neither am I, not really." For the first time there was a brief but meaningful eye contact between the brothers before the British Government Head dismissed the air with raising of eyebrows and cleared his throat._

_"As long as you know it—I'm always here, brothermine. Now the extent of Moriarty's downfall—that is what we need to settle."_

_"We'll talk about that after I die."_

_An arch of eyebrow—"Good luck with that."_

_"But you will be taking care of their safety? My friends?"_

_"Naturally. It's my day job. Just focus on what you do best—to play while I control—" Mycroft took the notebook from his table and pressed a sarcastic smile in front of his brother that later on turned serious again as they stood face to face. "I know your methods, Sherlock. Perfection is a must in this one. Not a single mistake, brothermine or it would be costly."_

_"Oh, it would." Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of mocking my grave just yet."_

_"Glad to hear." Mycroft pressed a small smile as he walked past his brother onto the doorway. "Now, I have to go. I have to meet your pal, and make it dramatic. A few icing on this Moriarty ought to do it. Give my regards to Ms. Hooper."_

_"Give mine to John." Sherlock called as he, too, jammed both his hands in his coat pockets as he watched his brother go. "Prepare your ears, he will be wordy. He's not very pleased with you."_

_"The very fact that he believed I would blab about your life story takes the cake."_

_"Because you never played nice."_

_Mycroft paused half way to the doorway suddenly and added, "Oh, I suppose I have to 'apologise'?" that was when he glared back at his younger brother, "The things you put me through, brothermine."_

_Sherlock smirked again and watched as his brother disappeared with his umbrella resting on his right shoulder and he was gone without another word._

_The next events were as clear as daylight to Mycroft Holmes' eyes as he watched his younger brother jump on the building. He couldn't afford being emotional right then though he was never one; he has orders to give, people to stir and lives to save all the while staying hidden in the shadows._

_Such was the job in the dark of one Mycroft Holmes._

* * *

**PART I**

* * *

"Just when I thought you people's inanity must have some limits, _you go and top yourself_." Sherrinford Holmes addressed the statement to the two men seated at the top chair of the long table with a drop of his eyebrows to his cold eyes. "To bring out Mycroft Holmes here and show your faces into the light... that is simply...the dumbest thing you could ever do."

A cold look passed at the butler's expression as he stood in his full height with nose in the air.

"Why? Instead of wasting our time waiting for you we've decided to make a move on our own. _We hope we didn't inconvenience you, Mr. Holmes?"_

"On the contrary," Sherrinford stepped into the red carpet casually as if it was his everyday strolling place and glanced back at his brother who has his eyes transfixed at him. "Things nearly backfired but I was prepared...all is well, I got what I want. What does it matter? But hadn't I told you lot that Mycroft Holmes is mine?"

He flashed a look towards the Earls' butler, no doubt a glance that held meaning of authority.

"We do not need any consent from you, Mr. Holmes." The butler put in defence with his whole expression contorting, "From the beginning, you were acting on your own and where did that get all of us? Most of the Earl's men rounded up by the secret service— half of those people behind bars with knowledge of our plan taken into custody by this man's men—and now this empty house! And all because you couldn't stop your brother when you said you would take care of him while we do our job." he glared across Mycroft who stood his ground proudly. "That is to say— the Earl does not take kindly to failure— especially not the drag of his name which this man so inopportunely uncovered. So in turn—there lies one thing to be done and maybe next time with better resources we can succeed in the future—a future where _Mr. Mycroft Holmes is no longer part of_."

He nodded at his men behind Mycroft who felt another tug on his arms as the two men behind him grapple his shoulders and arms roughly that made him grit his teeth.

_"Take your hands off of him."_

It was Sherrinford who was looking very sullen that moment as he gave the men behind Mycroft a look from where he was standing. He didn't stop glaring till they followed and set Mycroft free and the British Government Head raised his eyes to his brother, wondering what sinister plot was to come.

"Mycroft," it was the first time his eldest addressed him, and being done so didn't add to Mycroft's mood as Sherrinford went on— " _Do sit down."_

Mycroft glowered at his brother but there was nothing to be done when the men behind him suddenly put pressure on his recently injured shoulder and forced him to sit on the chair.

And he found Sherrinford looking at him in satisfaction on the chair opposite.

"Now, dear _brother_ , let's talk."

Mycroft gave him a deadly stare. The eldest Holmes blinked once.

"You're not going to refuse me calling you 'brother' anymore? I thought it was a pattern."

"Facts can't be distorted." Mycroft replied without moving an inch, eyes only on that lone eldest. "It must have been a delight to you to make your brothers run around in circles with sharks and snakes while you cooed with that word. Such a satisfaction it must have been."

"You still think I'm a madman." Sherrinford smiled.

" _You're no 'man'."_ Mycroft hardly blinked and the atmosphere around him was less than kind. "You're a toxic. A _poison._ Around you people _die and suffer_ while you think it was just part of nature. No, _Sherrinford,_ you are beyond any man could be and if I survived this episode mark my words— _I will have you contained._ That is by far the greatest gift I can give human kind."

The room was suddenly filled with a spasm of chuckle as the eldest Holmes shook his head and travelled his eyes to the Earl's men and then back to his brother who didn't look particularly intimidated. Sherrinford leaned forward the table with still a nasty grin that seemed to be part of his face.

"I'd like to see you try." He whispered sincerely to Mycroft. " _Survive."_

He stood up without another word, leaving Mycroft with a clenched jaw and dark expression while Sherrinford round at the butler with a confident smile.

"Now, gentlemen, anyone care to suggest how we over turn this situation before the Secret Service decides to claw their way in?"

A blank expression passed between the Earl's men as they exchange looks that Sherrinford chose to ignore.

"That's the problem with you people; _you always see what's only under your nose."_ He spoke drily pointed to his brother. "You don't seem particularly aware of this man's... _art._ You're not even aware that you are already inside his trap."

Confusion clouded the butler's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"It means you're already at his mercy." He pointed at his brother. "You didn't even notice— the moment you informed me the house was empty _I knew_ my dear brother had already set up a counter measure. You and your men stepping in here should have been the last thing to ever do."

His expression was calm; in fact, Sherrinford almost looked delighted while the butler looked as if he swallowed a large stone.

"I don't understand why I should be alarmed—with the Earl's resources I have men surrounding this palace from all the door and window, all armed and apt to engage. If there is anyone who should be saying his prayers right now, it's _Mycroft Holmes."_

"I don't pray." Mycroft suddenly replied coolly with an arch of his favourite brow, " _I act."_ He glanced at Sherrinford with typical cold eyes. "If you had this place surrounded from door to door then I have it by perimeter. _Military perimeter._ It is right to say that the moment you all entered the palace your lives had been forfeited. I might have disappeared in my men's eyes but they always follow orders down to the last letter. So when I told them to let people come in, they have to make sure nobody escapes _out. Regardless of whomever they may be."_

A clap, then more clap and Mycroft's eyes fell on his eldest brother again.

" _Very good,_ Mycroft, just as I had expected of you— _oh, how I wished you didn't turn out just as despicable_." He turned his eyes to the Earl's men and began walking towards the butler again. "You see? You stood no chance from the beginning because you _underestimated him and why— just because he was—what— unconscious?"_

A pointed silence fell in the room as their shadows loomed on the velvet floor. Nobody dared speak nor move except Sherrinford who looked carefree while he traced the wooden table with his fingers, eyes with Mycroft who was also watching him.

The brothers' silence spoke volume. Like a mental battle was within the distance of a table.

"Kill him." Carmichael Fischer, the butler went on with eyes on the British Government Head, "we can use him as a shield and then kill him after to erase any evidence against the Earl. The Earl wants a clean job— _he will not tolerate this."_

The British government head found himself raising an eyebrow.

"The connection had been established even before you confirmed the Earl's connection." Mycroft broke the news to him with a slight turn of his eyes. "The Earl had been visiting _Belfast_ despite the hazardous atmosphere... That place itself had created the suspicion in my mind. Or I am being less impartial but then again—I cannot help but _notice_ how _you would always point back to the Earl like he's here._ How ironic is it to keep on mentioning that one person you had been playing to _hide_ and continue to _overemphasized?"_

The look of surprise on the butler's face was enough to confirm Mycroft's suspicions. Especially when he tried to catch Sherrinford's eyes who was smiling as wide as ever under the bright light of the chandelier.

 _"Oh."_ Mary suddenly breathed from behind him as she too understood, making Mycroft look pointedly at the men who seemed to be waiting for his next words. That was when eyes glinted.

"I see. This, here is an old story about _butlers. No wonder I never kept one._ " He watched Sherrinford slink towards one of the stone pillars of the ceiling and leaned his shoulder there quietly. "They are always the first to tend in their masters needs... so always the first to know _what they will need._ They keep their eyes on everything with ears on the wall... hearing and seeing things outsiders do not have the same privilege. But the scariest thing about them is that their master _trusts them_ with every single thing that sometimes _they can even replicate their master's thinking._ "

"Hell, they can know everything by just pouring tea." Mrs. Watson muttered under her breath while Mycroft inclined his head on one side and gave the finishing blow.

"It is _just_ possible that you are framing him or _using the power of his name."_ The British Government Head sighed. "Circumstantial _coincidence_ makes me believe that. Now that I think of it clearly, surely you trusted me to recognize you? How I have to apologize to our poor Earl once I clear his name...but _ah well, he's the young son."_

To which Fischer could not give any counter except stunned eyes.

"Oh, don't blame yourself." Sherrinford suddenly cut off as he paced into the awkward scene again with crossed arms. "You just went head on with a genius, Fischer. You stand no chance. Speaking of _young_ — just how exactly did our youngest get his hands on this?" he raised the red notebook in the air again that caught Mycroft's full attention. "Did he really drug you to sleep just to save you from me?"

Upon seeing it, Mycroft's lips parted. He stared at the object for a second with fists closing tight before slowly raising his sharp eyes on his brother again.

 _"Where's Sherlock?"_ it was barely a whisper.

"Back at the graveyard where else—now, I asked you first—"

" _What did you do?"_

"Easy, brother dear. You better believe it when I tell you _he's dead."_

Mycroft lost all words as he stared blankly at that _man_ with all his strength leaving him. Confusion filled his eyes, then all together his face went pale as he lost grip and breathed out in intervals.

"It's your fault for sending him in unarmed." The eldest replied as he took the opportunity to walk around the table with eyes following him, "Don't worry about the dead now, brother, how many times I have to tell you?"

He placed the red notebook down the table as he stood once again in front of his brother. Mycroft was pale and there was a distracted look in his eyes as he slowly found the object in front of him.

"Stop being pathetic now, Mycroft." Sherrinford leaned forward the table again, "There's nothing we can do for the dead. But you have to admit, I got the better of him—it's his fault for always interfering when the matter's only between us. Now before your men come around we can probably spark up another conversation."

"I don't..." Mary said with a sharp look in her eyes. "What happened? Where are Sherlock and John?"

 _"Dead."_ Sherrinford repeated with the same smile that had been playing upon his lips.

The message itself seemed to make no sense until Fischer once again caught their attention with a very angry voice— he was on his phone which he was waving furiously in the air as he came from the window after looking outside.

"Why are they not answering? The Secret Service is here— we have to pull out the men and _kill them!"_ he pulled out his gun with his men following him and things began to stir dangerously as gun filled the air—only—Sherrinford shook his head and no bullet left its barrel _yet—_

"You never use your head do you?" he raised an eyebrow at the butler. "Do you know the only thing keeping the Secret Service away from penetrating this place? _It's this sound_ —"

And somehow, Mycroft saw it happen before it actually did—as his older brother took a gun from his own coat and pointed it past him with a gunshot suddenly ringing in the air— Mycroft's senses were alerted at once to Mrs. Watson who had been standing behind him—

 _"No..."_ he turned in time to see her clutch on her shoulder with a very alert look on her face as she stood almost sideways. Looking closely, Mycroft saw no trickle of blood and knew she was one lucky woman to have escaped death so narrowly.

"Did she just dodge that?" Sherrinford said in awe as Mary glowered on him.

"You're just a bad shooter." She said that made him smirk and raise his gun again, looking very determined to have a body on the floor this time.

"No!" Mycroft Holmes stood up this time as he bellowed in a harsh voice that didn't seem to belong to him. Sherrinford eyed his brother daringly but the British Government Head only stepped in front of Mrs. Watson, looking very sturdy with a firm grip of his hands. "You will not kill her... and certainly you have not killed Sherlock either... I don't believe it. _"_

He fixated an icy look towards on his eldest.

"There's that _look..._ the same expression you gave me on our last meeting... _cold._ Yet you turn fiery when we speak of Sherlock. But it's true— _I imploded him with John Watson and the London force—all those people you sent to stop me now in bits._ You might be right and Sherlock could have survived—just hope then that he is still in one piece."

Mycroft's lips thinned and for a second his eyes flickered in what appeared to be despair. It was then clouded by a dark look as he took a deep sigh and shook his head.

"My men will be here any minute."

_"Oh, will they?"_

Mycroft's clearly got the message and the reason became apparent as the next thing a loud explosion rang on their ears that shook the palace—and bright flames from the right side of the window told them of what had occurred. The location appeared to be the front doors.

"A little extra locks on the double doors for precaution in case other people try to come in uninvited." Sherrinford chuckled as he and Mycroft caught each other's eyes. "How many times do I have to prove it? Don't _underestimate me,_ brothermine. _Not even when you think you're winning."_

* * *

 _"Oh, god!"_ it was all John could shout before their car could even park at what they saw ahead of them. A part of the Kensington Palace was in flames after a brutal explosion they heard moments ago that seemed to have taken out most of the front of the building with debris all over the place. Around the fire were dozens of men in dark armoured shouting and giving orders to one another as they pull out bodies from the raging fire. Sherlock and John stopped their car and stepped out with wild look in their eyes.

Alarmed shouts continued filling the air. John didn't know where to begin helping when he saw injured authorities got carried away into stretchers.

"Sherlock—"

"No doubt this is the place." The detective responded when they heard the loud sirens of the police who had been after them while John looked behind them then to the number of people outside and scanning for his wife—

"She's not there—I've been trying to call her but the signals are off." The doctor was saying as he looked down his phone— the next thing John knew Sherlock Holmes was tearing away into the bushes—

_"What the hell are you doing?"_

_"Just follow me!"_

* * *

The explosion outside didn't seem to shake the Holmes brothers as Mycroft remained rooted on the spot between Mrs. Watson and his brother holding the gun while the Earl's men and Fischer went outside the door to receive reports from the others, leaving the three inside the Red Saloon.

"Look at you." Sherrinford said after awhile, gloating as he put his gun down. " _Protecting_ _innocent people._ Since when have you expanded your dedication to others other than Sherlock?"

Mycroft didn't answer but just stared at him with Mary glancing at Mycroft. When it became clear he was not in the mood for word play, the eldest brother raised an eyebrow and brought their attention to the red notebook in his hand again.

"Such an intricate material you have created, brothermine... the entire world's crux, puzzles—all manifested in a small object. At first glance of course people would think the contents are mere habitual scribbles of a bored middle aged man... unaware of its real power."

The British Government Head straightened himself with eyes lingering on the red notebook and for awhile there was a vexed expression on his face that Sherrinford was satisfied to see.

"What are you looking for, Sherrinford? Why did you return?"

"Like you didn't know already?"

The British Government Head shook his head. "Apart from the fact that you seem genuinely interested in having me killed, destroy the monarch's family with treason and scandals, and the nation as collateral. And now... _annihilate the world with_ that notebook in your possession— I don't know what else you want."

"Three out of four—you certainly are getting rusty, brother, you missed one _idea_. And still very frugal with information."

"If you know the contents of that notebook then you should know..." Mycroft's eyes hardened, " _it's not for use_."

"Try and stop me."

"Sherrinford, you—"

"What's wrong with it—you wrote it. I know your _bad habits_ , Mycroft." The eldest inclined his head triumphantly on one side with a smirk on his face, "You get bored easily than others but unlike Sherlock _you're too perfectly in control of yourself_. You set your own restriction when it comes to power. To be more accurate— _you are Napoleon Bonaparte that never wanted to monopolize._ Or you would have setup world domination a long time ago."

Sherrinford securely placed the notebook at his pocket and then traced the gun in his hand, all attention to his two companions while harsh talk was being exchanged outside by the butler and his men.

"That should give us some time for one more revelation." He went on quietly. "Tell me, Mycroft, when was the last time you were satisfied by a puzzle from others? I doubt if you were ever— _you create them._ But with a brilliant mind, how come you spend your time just sitting in your favoured _Diogenes Club?_ No—you're more than just a man who sits with a pen on his hand—when people see you scribbling away that itself should be a signal for catastrophe. As I understand it— you began taking interest to _other countries' codes_ to past time _._ From the ADIV SGRS of Belgium, the CIB of Hong Kong, the Sluzba Ohrany Prezidenta of Kazakhstan to the DRM, the military intelligence of France—you _know and you've solved them._ Even the secret codes of the CIA are no secret to you. I believe the CIA has also become suspicious of you, Mycroft and if it weren't for the fact that you are under the British Government, they would have taken custody of you as well. This notebook here— the only evidence of your _boredom—if it fell on any of those participants in your secret decoding game—would have you arrested on the spot."_

"It's my business to know." Mycroft replied easily but there was a frown on his face. Mary, who understood everything, was now eyeing the British Government Head with wide, thoughtful eyes.

"Of course." Sherrinford nodded in agreement, "It's not something huge for you, you never intend to give it to your government knowing it would interest those greedy politicians under your watch and might take advantage. That's your call. But intelligence from those other countries would only come as a treat for me _."_

Eyes twinkling, the eldest was cut short when out of nowhere, the door banged open again and Fischer came barging in, looking terribly agitated as he gripped his mobile phone on his hand with his men right behind him.

"I can't contact the others. We have to go— _they're coming._ "

He suddenly rounded on Mycroft but Mary was there and in a flash—had knocked down the butler head first—making him collapse on the floor—a second man tried to help him but he was also gutted in the middle and crouched down— and guns were raised but the blonde lady was already in possession of one of the guns and had stood in front of Mycroft, eyes flashing and determined.

"That's where we stop, boys." She said, backing to Mycroft, "I'm pretty sure you know the meaning of a _pissed_ wife."

"Mary—" came the British Government Head's voice from behind her and that was when she felt a cold metal gun pressed on her back too. And Mycroft saying, "Drop the gun."

Confused, she raised her hands with the gun falling with a thud on the floor.

"What are you doing?" she said when she rounded on him with a stiff expression on her face to really see Mycroft Holmes pointing a gun in her direction. His expression was cold and resolute and his aim firm.

" _Getting even."_ He said next— then a gunshot and a cry of pain were heard in the vicinity.

Mary came crashing on the floor supporting a bleeding leg as Mycroft rendered her incapable of standing. The butler scrambled from the floor with a broken nose as he eyed the woman while Mycroft looked back up at his brother coldly.

Sherrinford had his gun out again and was pointing a little while ago at Mrs. Watson's head. The moment the brothers' eyes meet, the eldest shook his head and lowered his gun.

"Oh, you spoilsport."

"Come on, take him." The butler ordered with a glare at the woman on the floor while two of his men confiscated the guns from the two, then with rough prelude took hold of Mycroft Holmes and began shoving him towards the door.

"What about her?" one of the men asked, pointing at the wounded woman.

"Leave her." Sherrinford said as he walked out of the room in trail of his brother.

* * *

"Did you hear that?" the doctor hissed to his friend as they sprinted on the grounds with heads down. " _Gunshot!"_

"Surprising." Sherlock answered as he suddenly crouched next to a garden wall and the next thing he was crossing over it with John blinking after. "Come on, John!"

"I don't know what you expect me to do with short legs!" the doctor responded as he, with all his might, jumped over the garden wall too, "And exactly how do you know where to go?"

"The most obvious sign." Sherlock said as he raised his head above again and sprinted on the next empty road. "You don't expect Kensington Palace to be without security and empty, John. It just means my brother has really done his job."

"So how do we know if he's here?"

"Didn't you see the black car when we came? That's Sherrinford's car. And obviously—the explosion."

The doctor blinked to himself and followed the detective suit. A few minutes later, he found Sherlock halting in front of him with eyes ahead on the building just beyond their reach. Looking up to where the detective was looking, he found a bright lit room—the only bright lit room among all other dark windows.

"You think—" he began but Sherlock was already on his way towards the window—causing him to curse and follow suit.

They had sneaked inside the palace in no time with Sherlock walking with head up and hands inside his pocket as if it was part of a daily routine while the doctor would glance behind him cautiously. The room they were looking for was just a little ahead but there was no doubt which it was amidst the other empty room—but then they found its doors wide open the caused them to run in.

And John's heart did a summersault as he found his wife crouched on the floor, next to the wall with an injured leg. Both Sherlock and John were beside her in the next beat—

 _"Oh, Jesus..."_ John's voice was hollow as he dropped beside her.

"I'm fine, it's just a scratch." She whispered with a sigh as John put an arm around her.

"Oh god..."

"Mary..." Sherlock was looking at her too but there was a different tone in his voice that filled the empty silence with his meaning.

"They took him on the left wing—it hasn't been that long." She answered while her husband inspected her wound. "Three men, armed and then your psychotic brothers— _sorry—but Mycroft did shoot me."_

 _"Mycroft did what?"_ John hollered with every word rising to his angry voice as the detective nodded. Then with a final look at her that seemed both grateful and apologetic, Sherlock scrambled to his feet with a tap on his friend's shoulder and not another word.

 _"Be careful!"_ John called after him as he left the room.

Sherlock was on all speed as he crossed the empty hallway, all the while hearing exchange of gunshots somewhere. Kensington palace was such a huge and extremely puzzling place and if one does not know his way they can easily get lost. Good thing Sherlock knew the map from his mind or it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

More gunshots filled the air that made Sherlock pause a little, then he sprinted ahead again. With the Secret Service and the national police all outside, plus every single back up they can get their hands on especially after the explosion—the _media would have a field day._ It was just possible that things will have a turn tonight too, if they were not careful what with all the hooligans desperate to escape and the police desperate to catch their prey.

And still his older brother joining the crossfire. It was apparent why Mycroft shot Mary. Sherlock will probably have to explain the logic of it to John later. For now— _he could hear running footsteps not far away from his direction—_

The next thing he saw a shadow—and guns were fired in his direction. He retaliated with the firing of his own gun but he wasn't stupid to waste his bullet when he hasn't even reached the peak—thus he used the dark. He slipped down the floor to the next corner, saw a mirror on the wall that hid two men in the shadow holding their weapons and waiting for him to reappear.

That was when he saw a big _Victorian vase_ on the table next to him.

With a shrug to its value, the detective took the vase and threw it in the air. Like dogs in for a freebie treat, the two shadows came out of their hiding place to aim—and Sherlock fired at them twice without missing –and the vase cracked on the floor with all its history into pieces, and was trampled on by the hurrying detective.

The next thing was a blur as Sherlock felt something heavy was slammed at the back of his head upon turning on the next corner. Before he knew it, someone with gloves was strangling him as he tried to get up—and stars came twinkling in his eyes as his breath shortened and the pain—

Sherlock snapped after that. With rigorous energy that came out of adrenaline, he took hold of the unknown man's collar and smacked his forehead on the person's face—cracking his nose in the process. There was a groan of pain as the man turned limp after and was conscious no more. Sherlock shoved him away, proud of his hard head and realise upon a glimpse that the man _must have been someone's butler._ Gritting his teeth, he located his gun and shook his head. With a frown at where he was standing, he turned left of the corridor and was hot in pursuit again.

Mycroft and Sherrinford will not be going anywhere without him.

In his haste, he saw a door closing—he ran toward it and kicked it open— he was met with a pointed gun but his adrenaline wasn't finished yet as he aimed a shoot at the exact moment the man did. His duelling partner fell down the floor, dead. Sherlock blinked and sighed as he felt no bullet enter his body.

A second of silence then—

_"Sherlock."_

The detective looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and found Mycroft's eyes fixed upon him with a sudden relieved expression washing his already worn face. Sherlock stared at his brother too, and then shifted his gaze to that _other person_ who was coolly standing a few feet apart and watching him with narrowed eyes.

"And he really _lives."_ Sherrinford said sarcastically. "You _son of the devil._ "

Sherlock didn't take away his eyes from his eldest brother and kept the gun securely in his hands. With a glance at Mycroft again, the detective could just see that he interrupted them in the middle of a conversation.

"This is just typical of the two of you," he whispered as he stepped closer, "to do all the talk while I hog all the action."

"Well, I didn't expect you to still be _capable_ of _any actions at all."_ Sherrinford admitted with an exasperated sigh. "Can't the two of you just die for me _, please?"_

Mycroft scoffed now able to get a hold of himself after seeing his younger brother in flesh while the detective took side steps, gun at hand and well pointed to that lone person.

"That's your mistake—when you dig up a hole and put people in it, you have to make sure they stay under." he quietly started to walk towards Mycroft with eyes alert to any movement. He found his brothers standing opposite each other in a room full of portraits of Kings and Queens and though there was no gun between them except a phone in Sherrinford's hand, it seemed to have the same effect to Mycroft.

"You're the only one who wouldn't stay put." The eldest commented as finally, Sherlock was beside Mycroft and there was some sort of different atmosphere as the two brothers stood side by side. "And look at us three, _all finally in one room._ Mum and dad would be proud—I didn't think reunions could be so... _intense."_

He nodded at Sherlock's handgun with glinting eyes.

"I imagined it to be something like this otherwise I wouldn't be attending." Sherlock said with a press of shoulder to the man beside him. "And I thought you'd be sleeping this over, _brother_. You never liked gatherings."

"We still need to have a lengthy conversation about that tranquilizer." Mycroft noted severely that made the younger Holmes to give him the most ridiculous look but was cut off speaking.

"I was just explaining to Mycroft how his world would change upon a single email." Sherrinford told Sherlock conversationally despite all the ringing gunshots outside. "I'm pretty sure the British Secret Service has penetrated a quarter of the palace and that the men standing on my side are all gone... so it all goes down to the use of his own device..." he raised the phone up. "Thanks to Sherlock's help of course."

Sherlock frowned while Mycroft pressed a sigh. The detective blinked as he remembered he was the one who supplied the red notebook and now the effects are staggering. It was another whole game, one that included Mycroft to comply or the world is over, apparently. Another checkmate.

"I'm sure it was unwittingly." Mycroft replied drily, sensing his younger brother's hesitation. _"He's just a boy."_

"So you think. Say, Sherlock what did you say was the content of the notebook from your readings again?"

"Passwords of government offices lines and security across Asia." The detective found himself saying in fast utterance as his mind palace zipped information after another, "Secret plans in codes of anagrams, letters, and messages sent from one intelligence to another cracked. Intercepted numbers from terrorists...91294 in the same line with 6913 suggestive dates September 12,1994 and June 9, 2013—the common denominator of both dates containing attacks on the White House by crashing vehicles on the fence... so another one should be coming and this time much bigger. Also 112615... Thanksgiving attack, again with White House... a list more. My brother has been working on these codes on his own leisure time."

"It takes your brothers to know it, of course." Sherrinford told Mycroft who had gone silent and was only eyeing him. "The thing is—there's no secret between us. And I will always be one step ahead of both of you." He smiled meaningfully with his thumb playing at the button of the phone just when they heard thundering footsteps somewhere close.

"You will send it anyway." Sherlock threw at him, aware that any moment, the police would join them and everything will be over. "What's the point of letting you escape?"

"Who says I want to escape?"

"Then what do you want?"

" _Me_." It was Mycroft who replied quietly with a solemn expression while Sherrinford smiled. "It's obvious now, _your term."_

"Isn't it?"

Sherlock frowned at the two. "What—?" he shot Mycroft a look.

"He's going to send those codes all over the world, make copies and with credits all going to _me._ Naturally with all the evidences that I cracked codes, violate international secrecy and _even treason..._ the world will crumble. I _shall be_ incarcerated with my name being one of the most undesirable criminals in the world."

"It's time the world recognizes how dangerous you are— _we both are_." Sherrinford suddenly took his gun and pointed it at Sherlock who had done the same thing. "Your publicity on the internet at the beginning of our game was just the tip—what follows next will be a complete _twist_ that will change you. And there, brother, I taught you another lesson— _for choosing the side of the people who eventually will discard you. You think your own government doesn't see you as a threat?"_

Sherrinford laughed as he waved the gun on his side; he laughed mockingly at Mycroft who remained standing still, straight as pillar with no trace of emotion on his face. Sherlock glared at his eldest before glancing sideways to his other brother beside him. It all rang true— _Sherlock knew it from the start—how cleverly dangerous Mycroft was._ The contents of the notebook were ingenious—and the contents were merely leaks from his great mind.

Now how do they escape the inevitable when the game was over and the checkmate established?

Sherlock's finger itched on the trigger of the gun. _There was no other solution._

"How about you, Sherlock?" came Sherrinford that caught the detective's attention. "Always playing around with _death,_ I'm surprised he still hasn't scythed you. You must be a favourite in heaven."

" _It's purely skills."_ The detective replied with a concerned glance at his elder brother again with the gun calling his attention. "The authorities will be here in a second, Sherrinford. Why don't I just kill you?"

"If you can afford to be faster than my finger. The results will be the same."

Sherlock felt his fingers connect with his weapon and the answer came right. Like he was meant to pull it after all and once again in his life there was that feeling of finding satisfaction in ending another person— _it was necessary._ And though it may be too late— _he can't let his brother take the fall. That notebook—that notebook will be his to take care of._

Mycroft never liked publicity from the beginning anyway.

"I will take care of the notebook, brother. _You won't have to worry about anything._ " Sherlock whispered to Mycroft as he raised his arm straight, eyes determined and dark as he surveyed Sherrinford who took one good look at him to know the detective's answer. He raised his gun too.

A second wait seem too long.

And they knew they were ready to

Only that, Mycroft suddenly placed a hand on Sherlock's raised arm. It was such a gentle grip too that made the youngest brother turn his head and see his brother Mycroft's calm expression.

" _Wait_." The older Holmes instructed and lowered Sherlock's arm, just in time as the men in dark gears and high calibre guns came swiftly inside the room and surrounded the vicinity—most of them isolating Sherrinford with their pointed guns as they saw him armed—

Sherlock suddenly became aware of his eldest's smile for he, Sherrinford, had just clicked the phone's send button, leaving the detective staring while the authorities assaulted him. The phone was dropped on the floor and things seemed to go slowly after that.

" _I win."_ Sherrinford mouthed towards Mycroft while he was cuffed. There was no struggle from the man himself and his less condescending nature made Sherlock realise how dire the situation was. He didn't breathe as he walked towards the phone and slowly reach it from the floor with Mycroft behind him.

He clicked the phone.

"Come on, Sherrinford," Mycroft found his voice again as he faced his eldest who was just being taken outside. Sherlock had walked back beside Mycroft and had given the phone to his brother. "I thought it was an agreement between us. To _never_ _underestimate each other_ , _not even when we think we're winning."_

Sherrinford glanced back at them in time to see Mycroft flash the screen of the phone with the twenty plus _unsent_ email. His dark eyes wide and struck.

And Sherlock looked away, still beside his brother and whispered on his ear while still in a moment of disbelief—

_"You turned off the signal station."_

"As only I can do." Mycroft nodded with a brief smile and a dark look to his eldest. "During any heist or any criminal activity, _communication_ has always been of importance. I especially took note of that during my time on Belfast when terrorists seemingly got the better hand when they deprived us of communication to my men. And I thought in any events, _to sacrifice communication_ and replace it with time decision and agreement, any scheme could still work. The disadvantage of it of course was that the Secret Service had to play in the dark and understandably _might be a little late._ But signals like gunshot would do— all to make sure that nobody will come out of this place and that nobody from the _outside could interfere_ in case we still have spies in our number."

He looked back at Sherrinford whose face had become grim at the prospect of being thwarted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock glowered at his eldest as well and marched towards the man—then plunging his hand inside Sherrinford's coat pocket, the youngest Holmes took the red notebook.

"What I didn't see coming was you... using the same means to _threaten me._ You could have sent the message even before you came here, but no. You want to have the satisfaction of watching me despair while you wave your trophy. Always the same as ever, _big brother._ You never change."

And all Sherrinford did was once again, _smile._

* * *

**_Part II_ **

* * *

Sherlock and Mycroft came out of the partially broken down front of the Kensington Palace with bright lights of sirens and ambulance greeting their eyes. Men after men came to report to Mycroft in the next second while Sherlock stayed right behind him with a glowering look at the surrounding and the police who were also _glaring at him_.

"He crashed the _Buckingham Palace gate, sir._ " The police reported with a nod at the younger Holmes.

Mycroft didn't speak but the parting of his lips followed by a glare towards his younger brother was enough to make Sherlock look pointedly away.

"That's part of the classified Secret Service report." The British Government head muttered as he raised an eyebrow at the police. "I don't want any lines on Scotland Yard; let it disappear."

"Yes, sir." And the man was off. Sherlock looked at his brother who had followed the police with his eyes before meeting his younger brother's gaze again. The two exchanged silent looks for awhile till Mycroft's eyes glinted darkly. And that was when their previous encounter suddenly flashed before the detective's eyes— _inside the hospital room—the tranquilizer—_

Sherlock blinked.

"What?" he ejaculated defensively, as Mycroft rolled his eyes and began moving again, " _I saved your life!"_

Mycroft sighed deeply with the detective frowning after him, then after a second, followed his brother grudgingly and muttering words under his breath.

"Kensington Palace and now Buckingham..." the older Holmes suddenly said heavily, "If I hadn't been in this position we three brothers would be the most notorious villain of the century."

That made Sherlock snort.

"Send my regards to Mrs. Watson, Sherlock. I gather they were sent to the nearest hospital like many of the wounded and fallen agents."

"How many...?"

"Four."

There was a grim silence between the brothers for a second until Mycroft sighed.

"We'll take you there."

"Why not come down too? Because John will murder you?"

"Yes."

"Can't blame him."

"Can't believe he wouldn't understand the logic of that either."

"Oh, you know John. He's a very simple man. You hurt her, he'll take you."

"Yes. Quite justifiable. Really remarkable what one would do to protect their precious persons." Mycroft stopped and glance at the younger brother behind him. "You weren't really thinking of taking the fall for me, were you, Sherlock?"

"I'll leave that to your deduction." The detective answered as he walked past his brother who watched him go. When a second later he didn't feel his older brother follow him, Sherlock jerked his head back and saw Mycroft talking to a secret service personnel. With narrowed eyes, the detective sauntered back and planted himself on Mycroft's right side again.

"Communication lines will be returned shortly." The older Holmes informed him as they began walking again.

"You shutdown London's signal tower."

"Much easier than requesting the shutdown of the whole satellite." Mycroft shrugged in a matter of fact tone.

"That easy, huh?" Sherlock struck a conversation so naturally as he fell on the steps beside his older brother. It was already dawn and camera reporters were already filling the streets. The two brothers walked towards the parked sedan at the corner where Anthea was waiting. "Where will our fallen brother be disappearing then?"

"That's already classified." Mycroft answered quietly with a nod at the secretary who slithered her long legs inside the sedan and the engine was on. "I have to go to the office and explain everything that happened, brother. Get in the car and we'll take you to Baker Street. It will do you good to rest after all these... _fiasco._ See if everything fits and avoid the media. Goodness knows how we need to avoid them."

"I don't see why I should." Sherlock muttered as he watched the man enter the car and followed after. The car slid towards the gate and in seconds was away from all the bright lights and siren. "You're the one they'd like to snap a picture though." He added when they saw a flash of a local media network. "You'll be top news."

"As far as they know I should be dead. If I die, I die—"

 _"Mycroft!"_ Sherlock snapped at his older brother who was surprised at the knee jerk reaction. The detective blinked to himself and frowned at the man in the car. "You had enough time saying that."

"As you do." The British Government head frowned at the detective too, "As ever, I am always at lost to everything you do, Sherlock. Time and again you always seem to find ways to get yourself nearly killed."

"I think you were actually the one who kept on getting threatened."

Silence then. Sherlock turned at his brother and found him sitting quietly beside him with eyes closed. And suddenly Mycroft looked so worn out with his eyes closed and pressed thin lips. His breathing was normal, though his shoulders were down and the way he leaned himself on the chair was enough sign of his fatigue.

"You better stay at the hospital too." Sherlock whispered with a look towards the window, and then exchange meaningful looks with Anthea who was watching them from the rear view mirror. " _You're tired."_

"The effects of you _drug,_ brother." Mycroft opened his glinting eyes with a look at the detective who pointedly looked away again. "It's a nasty feeling that... _tranquilizer_. By the life of me I shall never take anything so repulsive. And speaking of rest—it should be addressed to someone who was in comma for more than twenty four hours."

 _"I was sleeping."_ The detective corrected.

"You had surgery."

"You had your back sewed."

"Are we really going to count this now?" Mycroft rolled his eyes while Sherlock chuckled beside him.

When for a moment silence fell inside the car, did Sherlock speak again.

"Just stop keeping me in the dark when things like this happen, Mycroft. You know how I like your mysteries. It wouldn't be half as fun if my supplier were to _just disappear._ Plus, I'm kind of really fond of _Big Ben._ "

"Big Ben will never disappear." Mycroft replied softly with eyes ahead just as their car rounded on London streets and the giant clock that showed it was already five in the morning, Big Ben's light glowed before them just before sunrise. "If it does, _it will be a national crisis._ But then, you would really never let that happen, am I right, brothermine?"

Sherlock glanced at the clock and then sideways at his brother before looking ahead too.

_"Never, brothermine."_

* * *

**_*I JUST THINK IT SWEET HOW THEY KEPT CALLING EACH OTHER BROTHERMINE. LIKE A PET NAME :)_ **

* * *

It was two weeks after the apparent double attack on the British nation's historical palaces that Sherlock received a word from his brother's secretary. All the news on the television was still filled with reports from different angle till it reached international attention. Posts from media, newspaper and even local radio station were all pointing towards _terrorists_ , anarchies and even republicans. Even somebody called _Trump_ kept appearing as the mastermind. Amidst the entire crisis felt by Europe, however, there was one power that was keeping everything in balance.

Mycroft's name of course, was never mentioned. A sign that he was once again back in full power. It was subtle, but the fact that _he was once again all over the place_ without much attention was enough for the detective to lie low as well. Sherlock left his brother to sort out all the rigorous governmental problems while he was left to deal with the still simmering John.

 _"He's not in Diogenes."_ The doctor told him one day that got the younger Holmes rolling his eyes.

"Mycroft's not hiding from you, John." He said with a throw of his favourite _new skull_ in the air as he sat on the sofa one Sunday afternoon. "He's just... busy. You should go check him on his house."

"Yeah, where's that?"

The suggestion was ignored as Sherlock explained the multiple secret service and guards that roamed his brother's house and for a week John seemed to lie low. Only to find out from Mary that she convinced him to drop the idea by referring to that one time when she, herself, shot Sherlock, _Mycroft's brother._

 _"He had to do it. It's a full cycle."_ Was what Mary said without much as a shrug, referring to Mycroft shooting her.

It was then that Sherlock found himself eating his third meal right after lunch courtesy of Mrs. Hudson when the door bell rang and Anthea herself came. Surprised at the messaged she carried that couldn't be relayed through phone, the detective put on his dress and thick coat before following her suit on the sedan.

Sherrinford was allowed visitors, it seemed—at least _immediate family_. And his request was his youngest brother.

"Mycroft allowed it?" he asked sceptically before they plunge in an hour drive towards Western Way where it was located. Anthea nodded and told him the man himself visited two hours ago and was already back to Pall Mall.

They parked the car at the one of the highest security prison in London, Belmarsh. The secretary gave a nod and told him they will be waiting for him to come back so he went out of the car and pulled his coat closer to his neck as he looked up the building. The area was surrounded with high fences, its three floor building seemingly dark from the inside. A crest of her Majesty was on the wall with the letters written in bold that said, _HMP Belmarsh._ Sherlock knew the kind of prisoner kept there and knew by standard that as they said— _it was a prison inside a prison._

A man in dark suit and short ginger hair then met him before he could take the first step and one glance told Sherlock the man was from the Secret Service and has the same air of one fallen agent he slightly liked, _Carruthers._

"He was my colleague." The man quietly said who didn't bother telling his name as they walked inside the halls of the prison bearing the clearance for the visit. "He was always punctual, that's all I remember."

For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to tell him of Carruthers' habits he discerned from their time together but then thought of the man who was one of the casualties in his brother's affair. It was part of the job, yet still. Especially when now he realised, did Carruthers have someone special? From his lifestyle it was apparent he was living alone and _committed to his job._ Did he die alone? Without any family to remember him?

And it all went back to the time when he played dead—where he heard news about John's grief, Mrs. Hudson's cries, Lestrade and Anderson's sincere apologies. But it was John he truly felt for. _He was not alone._

Sherlock frowned to himself as they were lead by another security guard towards a gray door that read _visitors._ He travelled his eyes to another large hall where a number of long tables were in. He stopped pointedly but the guard shook their head and pointed to another gray door that read _restricted._

Sighing, Sherlock followed them again with a lingering memory at the fallen agent. He was never one to think solid about death but somehow, after everything, the lost lives, the near attempt on his brother and even his life; John's and Mary's lives... _death_ doesn't seem that appealing than before. Not to the people he swore to protect.

They entered the gray door and it was much smaller, not more than his kitchen. It was white walled too with a door at the other end and a table in the middle where a familiar man in orange suit was waiting for him quietly.

Sherlock's eyes met his brothers and for a moment, he wondered if someone would actually weep for this person.

"Sherlock." Sherrinford offered him the seat opposite while the Secret Service men stayed outside and there were only the two of them plus the guard waiting at the other end of the room left in the area. The detective raised his eyes to the corner of the room and saw a CCTV camera.

"What do you want?" he began when he leaned back on his chair till they were both settled in and warmed up with each other's eyes transfixed.

"Two visitors in one day should suffice my social skills." The eldest explained in a very slick voice while Sherlock's eyes fell on the man's handcuffed wrists on the table. "I'll call for our parents next."

"Like Mycroft would let you."

"Ah, yes, Mycroft. He was just here right after lunch. You missed him not two hours ago."

Sherlock eyed him but didn't speak and the same question was ever on his eyes. _"What do you want?"_

"You're very impatient." Sherrinford sighed and leaned his back on his chair, his eyes full of life despite the two-week incarceration. "I heard Mycroft sent you to prison for a week. How did that work for you?"

"Made me mentally disable." The detective answered with eyes darkening at his eldest brother. "It was such a boring place and boring existence. _I nearly killed myself."_

Sherrinford looked amused for a second. "Why didn't you?" he asked.

"Because I realise it was just boredom speaking." Sherlock smirked at him. "And that I have Mycroft to trust to. He wouldn't let me rot in a cell. Turned out, I was right— _he was ready to send me to Eastern Europe._ " He smiled at the memory and vexation.

"Thrilling." Sherrinford narrowed his eyes. "When he could have easily brought you out, he decided to give you another lesson. Much same with me when he sent me to exile with the CIA. Mycroft's having a field day getting rid of his brothers."

The detective frowned a little and then looked down the table again.

"It's his job."

"More like a choice."

"You didn't call me here just to gang up against Mycroft, did you?" he kicked the floor and was about to stand up- his brother could rot and be hidden in that place for all he cared- when he found Sherrinford's gleaming eyes of mischief at him.

"I called you here to give you a tip. A head's up of what's to come because something is coming, Sherlock..."

"What do you mean?"

"Depends on your answer first— _why are you against me?"_

The question came out of nowhere that for awhile the detective didn't know where to start. His deep frown lasted for about a second before Sherrinford leaned closer on the table.

"Are you angry at me for killing Redbeard? Poor boy." He started that got Sherlock's eyes round. "How about when you got addicted to cocaine? Or was it when you nearly died trying to salvage Mycroft from his doom in Belfast? But that one's on you. You chose to follow him... _why do you follow him?"_

"What are you up to?"

"I just don't understand where you get that unwavering loyalty to Mycroft." He sounded in full wonder. "When after all he has put you through with the prison and all...you should be hating him— so why are you only against me?"

Sherlock stared at his brother as he leaned back on the chair. That was when he took notice of the man's pale complexion and reddening under his eyes. His brother was deteriorating. Sherlock wondered if this was how Mycroft saw him during his daily visit.

"Of course I hate him." He began slowly as he met Sherrinford's eyes. "He's my brother."

Silence followed that only made the man before him smirk.

"So you hate me too, because I'm your brother?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed at the question and before he knew it his voice had gotten stronger as he said—"No. I hate you because you tried to _kill my brother."_ It was true—it was never anything that Sherrinford tried to do to him— _it was always when he tried to do away with Mycroft that Sherlock couldn't forgive him._ And it reflected on his eyes.

The answer got Sherrinford silent for another second, until a smile spread on his lips that didn't bode well.

"Now well, I suppose you'll hate me even more?"

A beat came, and Sherlock sat straight, all eyes on the man.

"What do you mean?"

"I told you...I don't like loose ends. Not killing right away leaves loose ends."

"What?"

"You and Mycroft never learn. Many times over and over I kept telling you people _never_ _underestimate enemies, not even when you think you're winning._ So now you're back to square one."

Sherlock reacted fast as he grabbed his brother by the collar, thinking of Mycroft's visit—only to find Sherrinford smiling from ear to ear, his dark eyes with reddening corner told him of a drug's effect—

" _What did you do?"_ he didn't wait for the answer as he turned to his phone only to find the signal off. So with a loud shout he went to the door to call the unknown Secret Service man and told him to call Mycroft or his secretary immediately. He turned back to his brother on the chair who was now smirking so bluntly while shaking his head.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and put both palms on the table and with very intimidating eyes, looked Sherrinford in the eye. _"What did you do?"_

Sherrinford took his time until he found the energy to return the gaze.

"Are you aware of the _Fallen Angel_ incident back in United States around 2003?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding as his brother went on—

"A person identifying himself as _"Fallen Angel"_ sent letters filled with _ricin_ to the American President in the White House intending to do harm. _Fallen Angel_ was never found and the letters were intercepted of course... but there goes the legend of never opening emails again. You know what ricin is, don't you? One of the most _poisonous_ substances on earth—a pint salt amount of its grain can kill a person if it enters their system. And it's a pretty easy poison to make. Pretty easy to slip to anyone you hate."

He grinned at his brother who had turned pale as he snatched his brother's neck—making the guard to suddenly come in between them but Sherlock wouldn't let him off as he shook Sherrinford vigorously who was smiling wickedly.

"And I suppose _you are the Fallen Angel?"_ Sherlock hissed when two more guards came in and held his shoulders back but the detective didn't care as he listened with his ears all too alert for the return of the Secret Service man. " _You tried to kill the American President?"_

"I was bored and thought it could slip by." Sherrinford shrugged, and then his eyes danced in glee. "Mycroft's probably at home right now, enjoying his drink. You know he has two favourite bottles of wines on his study table when I came to pay a visit—one _Saint- Emilion 2001_ and the other a _Pomerols_ of the same year— I mixed _ricin_ on one of them."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"It's been two weeks ago and Mycroft's still alive. He must have been so busy or _too lucky to choose the poison-free bottle_." Sherrinford sighed as he put both hands patiently on the table. "But just today I reminded him of some things that would make him need a _drink again—a strong one—you get the idea."_

Sherlock was on him again—kicking and nudging away the police officers as he tried to lay his fists on the fiend he could never look at as his family anymore. He clawed his hands on the man's neck—enough to hear him whisper—

"Just when you thought you are the winner... _bam_... it all goes crashing down. _No loose ends, brother."_

Sherlock was running—he could not wait for them anymore. He circled the area with police meeting him and directing him to an area with signal. He immediately called Mycroft's number.

The phone rang. Many times. But there was no answer.

And somewhere around London at a warm study room, a phone rang with Sherlock's name on it on the table but there was no one around. Except for a half empty bottle of _Saint- Emilion_ beside it.

A few steps towards the fire however, a familiar hand with a golden ring laid on the floor, unmoving.

And a glass of wine toppled with its content all over the carpet floor, _forgotten._

* * *

The news of Mycroft Holmes' death reached the public news. Interests were upon it especially when they remember his face on the websites and television coverage. How did he die? They ask. Was it the terrorists? Was the ransom not paid? Did the government leave him to his fate? In the end, nobody found out what happened and so little people were interested.

Sympathies were in the air for the length of a week till it died down too. Then nobody remembered. It was just another one of those weekly news. Nobody could remember him personally, and nobody would claim contact with him either. Even his connection to Sherlock Holmes seemed unhelpful; one obituary did name him as a close brother.

But 221B Baker Street was closed down. Shut off.

Nobody had lived there since the incident and reporters couldn't get anything from the land lady. Clients would come every now and then only to get discourage. But their lives went on despite the troubles. London continued on despite the apparent atmosphere of lost. The world went on despite the absence of the two brothers that had once made it if not a better place then at least—a safer one.

Little did the world know of its actual lost.

But then... _all good things must come to an end._

And the _hour of departure has arrived._

* * *

**_FALLEN_ **

* * *

**_~The End~_ **

"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet.

It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast.

But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."

- _Herr Holmes._

* * *

A/N: I'd like to thank you all for all your time and support during each publishing time :D It has been a very good experience writing for _Sherlock_ BBC's unique characters. Especially the Holmes brothers. Though their dynamic is different from the books (Sherlock and Mycroft were never seen publicly insulting each other xD), the love underlying the brother's sharp tongues were as bright as the sunlight enough to make path for this story! And Mycroft's power really has so plenty of potential.

I can't wait for Season 4. All the hints of Mycroft being a 'real' central figure of the three-episode conundrum is highlighted! Something is coming for him, I believe ;)

Thank you- **W.G**

_And now..._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes kept his copy of _Beekeeping_ inside his pocket as he sat down a large stone while he surveyed the grounds out on the field at Sussex Downs where his family had kept their old vacation house. The accumulated beehives at the back of the house had been growing in number and so were the bees, obviously. But Sherlock wasn't much interested to bees as he was to their venom and its properties plus the recently identified properties of their beehive glue that modern science has been inclining to change medicine. Surely his efforts would not be in vain?

Glancing down at his clock, the curly dark haired man stood up from where he was seated on the stone and turned a glance at the house porch where a man was sitting on what appeared to be a _wheel chair._ He was tall, considering his the reach of his legs and with thinning hair. He was wearing a dark collared shirt and white pants and despite the immobility of his feet, it was well compensated for by his glinting sharp eyes, though his face was still pale. The poison was deadly and indigestion was its least dangerous way of consumption. But there were effects.

Sherlock stared at the man for quite awhile before moving forward and jamming his hands inside his trousers.

Such men had to remain _hidden._ But it won't be for long.

This is _**The Hidden Holmes.**_

* * *

_**Thank you once again for reading! :)** _


	17. Epilogue: Sentry

**_An Epilogue_ **

* * *

A cab stopped by the empty sidewalk of Baker Street in front of 221B with its passenger in a hurry to open the car door. Had it been under normal circumstances, it would be common to see this scene in front of 221B where people had been known to stumble, collapse, get shot, kidnapped, arrested and far worst die on the spot. But it was not since 221B, the famous address of one infamous detective, Sherlock Holmes, had been closed for more than a month. Neither a glimpse nor a shadow had been seen of the detective since the last news report of his brother's obituary.

One man called... well, people do forget.

But it was another familiar face that came out— _John Watson_ paid the cab driver without even a second glance at the man as he swept his feet on the stone pavement of Baker Street in front of _Speedy's_. It was Sunday night and the road was empty with the street lamps already brightening corners and lightening shadows with their golden glow. It was one of those mysterious nights John clings on especially with the sudden messaged on his phone from his best friend's number saying:

_221B._

It was by right to be vigilant so with an atypical glance over his shoulder and then up to the curtained windows, the doctor quickly jumped over the steps of 221B after seeing a faint light in the room he once occupied. He opened the door using the spare key the landlady had given him and strode up after securing the lock of the door— coming up to the landing and then straight to the already open door of his former rooms.

221B Baker Street was as he remembered it since he last went there a week ago with no trace of dust or cobwebs thanks to the wilful owner Mrs. Hudson except tonight— the _empty_ room he remembered was no more as now there was a man covering the house from side to side as he gathered books, newspapers, even board games and stuff them inside his large dark duffle bag sitting on his favourite black chair.

 _"Sherlock."_ John breathed out next upon finding the tall, curly dark haired detective there in his usual dark suit and white collared shirt. Sherlock looked behind him as the doctor stepped in to meet his friend in a closer range.

"John." The detective replied quietly with a short nod but he didn't stop moving from one corner to the next. The doctor watched him hover around and found the bookshelves almost empty. Confusion and fear gripped the grey haired man.

"A-are you moving?" he asked, "For good?"

"What— _no."_ Sherlock answered as if talking to himself with his back still at the doctor, "Well— _maybe._ I don't know when I'll be back next to London so I'm taking _all these._ It's handy to read details of old cases, you know... especially with a bored Mycroft in the same room. I have three sets of unsolved cases, mostly murders and missing people, he might find those interesting. He despises _Cluedo_ so I'm not taking it." He added with one swift look at his friend, an inclination of his head towards the table in between the windows and then dashing towards his room and disappearing.

John looked at the Cluedo set on the table with half open mouth before turning and following Sherlock in his room. He found the man digging under his bed and reappearing with a suitcase. He opened it only to reveal _more papers and newspaper clips._

"How's he?" John went on as he cleared his throat. _"How's Mycroft?"_

Sherlock froze while the doctor watched him silently. A second passed and with a pointed sigh, the detective shut the lid of the suitcase close and then stood up.

"He's fine." Sherlock gave him one glance and walked pass him to their waiting room. The doctor watched him go for a moment before distractedly following and then sitting on his old chair while the man rummaged on his bag.

 _Fine_ was the last word John would use to describe Mycroft Holmes. Not since the last time he saw the British Government Head barely breathing with oxygen mask on his face. Especially not too, after _finding_ the man sprawled on the floor of his home at Pall Mall a month ago.

It was John who _discovered_ Mycroft first.

It was as if it was yesterday when he contacted the British Government Head for a face-to-face meeting regarding his wife's well being. Mycroft had been avoiding him ever since the incident— _Mycroft shot his wife—_ that John was forced to pave his way to Diogenes Club and his other small office at the Parliament but of little success. It was then where John had to remind himself that this was _Mycroft,_ the man who could disappear whenever and wherever he wants to. There was no chance of him finding him when the man doesn't want to be found. So with a final shot, he texted the older Holmes and had received a reply instructing him to come to his house. John knew his address anyway given they were the only two people on Sherlock's address book.

With a go signal from the British government head, an assurance too that he would not be assaulted as he stood by the gate, John was somewhat welcomed to Mycroft's private quarters Sherlock only had access to. Strolling inside Mycroft's place was like going around a museum with no other visitors. The place was large but only so because of a number of armours and portraits hanging on the corridor. Wondering what pleasure the man might get from such a collection, John was lead by a secret service man in dark suit towards Mycroft's office. There seemed to be no one in there except them.

Silence dominated the entire house as the doctor cleared his throat when he came in, his steps echoing in his ears. At first he thought the room was empty for the table was vacant—he thought he had to wait for the man to come back from whichever room he was in. That was when his saw the _body._

It was the toppled glass on the floor and then the hand that got John to turn cold. And then the familiar golden _ring._

It was his doctor's instinct to respond immediately too that kept his shock at bay as he knelt and checked Mycroft's pulse, then without a single beat, shouted for help and dialed for an ambulance as he found a weakening pulse—

Even without a pulse he would still call an ambulance for Sherlock's brother will _not die on him!_ John thought desperately.

And then events went like flashes in his memory as he remembered Sherlock meeting him in the hospital's emergency room like a wild animal on the loose. The same emergency room Sherlock was confined in few days before. A week after that, _Mycroft Holmes was declared dead._

This was of course, all Sherlock's plan even when his older brother had survived. Nobody could blame him, not Anthea and not John. Even the British Government had no inkling about it though _Harry—Mycroft's illustrious acquaintance—_ needed to be informed for the older Holmes had suffered far greater injuries _internally_ than physically. The poison identified on his glass was deadly on standard and after finding out the effects, Sherlock was adamant to pull his brother away this time.

 _"One of the world's deadliest poison, indeed."_ Mycroft's doctor had told them hours after the operation. _"We should consider him lucky he survived. Ricin if you must know is a toxic that affects the cells which highly intends to destroy organs or do worst. Ingesting it is by far the least dangerous but will still have effects. Mind,_ _a milligram of ricin injected or inhaled can already kill and that's only about the size of a few grains of table salt. It does look like a table salt so it is really understandable they are mistaken most of the times. If he had been_ _injected with it or had he inhaled it, he would be beyond help even without the delays. It seems that your brother had the poison in his system several hours even before he was found—and that's already deadly. A couple more hours and would have died when it infects the cells of the vital gastrointestinal organs as they pass through the body, leading to the failure of the kidneys, liver, and pancreas. So an immediate use of gastric lavage was necessary to remove it and prevent the poison from reaching the rest of the gastrointestinal system at its full force."_

 _"How will it affect him now that he survived?"_ Sherlock asked quickly without batting an eye at the doctor. John, who understood the reference to poisons methodically, glanced sideways at his friend before looking back at the surgeon.

_"There will be some serious vomiting and dehydration."_

_"Is his life still in danger?"_

_"We have removed most of the poison fatal to his life—it was truly a good thing he was found immediately. But he is still under observation. I recommend a full rest for a couple of months."_

_"Is his life still in danger?"_ Sherlock repeated strongly this time that got the doctor to raise his eyebrows.

_"Well... yes."_

Mycroft vomited blood a couple of times after that and needed two more stomach pumps to the point of exhaustion and physical strain. John remembered Sherlock disappearing between those days and found him reappearing two hours later. John was waiting by the corridor chairs just outside Mycroft's private room where the doctors had been observing him again when Sherlock came back with blades in his eyes.

 _"I paid him a visit."_ The detective answered the doctor's silent question with a flex of his right fist that indicated action as he slump himself on the chair next.

 _"What for?"_ John sighed with a frown towards the opposite wall. " _Punching him many times wouldn't help Mycroft at all."_

_"No. But I had a question that needed an answer."_

_"What's that?"_

_"I asked him why he poisoned Mycroft through wine when ingestion's the least fatal way of taking it. If he wanted to kill Mycroft he could have left an amount on Mycroft's favourite handkerchief or tie or even his ventilating system to inhale. Or even leave a contaminated needle on his pillow or inside his shoes... so why let him drink it."_

John contemplated on the question and had to agree. Does that mean Sherrinford did not mean to kill Mycroft at all? That somehow, deep inside him— _really deep—there was an attachment_ of some kind for his brothers?

_"You know what he said?"_

_"What?"_

Sherlock suddenly turned to the doctor with his dark eyes round and glinting.

_"He didn't want Mycroft dead. He wanted Mycroft... incapacitated."_

_"What?"_

_"He wanted to tear down Mycroft, rob him of his talents—make him suffer slowly, lose all his capability to work his mind and then die of hopelessness. He said it with delight, John... like it was a last wish he wanted to take to the grave."_

John had no answer to that. Something unfathomable... this Sherrinford's mind. Until that very moment at 221B, this _puzzling relationship_ was still on the doctor's mind as he watched his friend pull the strings of his bag close before throwing himself on the chair too to face his friend. Sherlock looked thinner than usual but not unhealthy. The countryside seemed to be doing him good. Isn't that why the detective chose to bring his sick brother there?

"Storm in a teacup."

"What?"

"That's what Mycroft said I was doing." Sherlock explained with hands put together in a familiar fashion as he surveyed the friend he hadn't seen for awhile. " _Storm in a teacup._ He still thinks I'm making too much fuss about him getting poisoned. He's found out about his obituary five days after we left for Sussex and wanted to contact his secretary even though he was still vomiting blood."

John sat straight with an undivided attention to his friend.

"How's he been since?"

"He's lost weight as expected." Sherlock's eyes had that lost look in them, "Weak stomach. Everything he eats just goes... all back up. You wouldn't recognize him when you see him. He'll need new tailors I expect. Couldn't even stand up on his own for two weeks. He was like a slug." He pressed a smile that John knew all well to be blank.

"And he still tells you you worry too much about him?" John shook his head with a heavy sigh. "He'd be dying and he'll still be singing the same tune."

"The only constant thing about him." The detective replied with a narrowed look to the doctor. "I told him he could have died and then he went off like a bullet telling me his poison's different effects— he was all, _'Oh, Sherlock, do read your area of expertise, will you? Since ricin proteins aren't interacting with the same parts of the body it will have different effects. For ingestion it's gastrointestinal problems you'll develop a vicious, bloody cough—look at me. Then at worst my lungs will fill with fluid, and eventually I'll lose my ability to breathe, causing death.'_ "

"That's Mycroft all right."

"Yep."

"Who's with him now?"

"Another person he will never resist—he's incapable."

"Hm?"

" _Our mother."_

The prospect of Mycroft on the table with Mrs. Holmes was an occurrence John wanted to see again. The last time he saw Sherlock and Mycroft's parents were... well, it took about a _punch_ to end all of it.

"But he's fine now?" John pressed on, "I mean if he could go as far as argue with you—"

"Why do you think I'm taking all these?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow testily with a pointed nod at his duffle bag. "He's been mentally active after taking in a sting from a bee. I've been going through a couple of research on bee venom... bee venom toxins have been used as a treatment in East Asia since the second century. Mycroft is still partly poisoned and aiming for his well being bee venoms had been very helpful."

"You sure it's safe?"

"I'm the best quack doctor." He grinned.

"But Mycroft trusts _you."_

"He does."

"Will he be returning to work—?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed sharply but then it disappeared as fast as it came too. With both his hands falling on his armchair, the detective shrugged and looked at his best friend straight in the eye.

"What work? He's _dead_."

* * *

_"Sherlock, you're my brother and I love you—but for godsake—stop lying to my men about my condition!"_

Sherlock had just returned from London a couple of hours later carrying with him his handy duffle bag only to find his older brother already waiting for him by the porch with a letter on his hand. The detective raised an eyebrow as he walked closer to the table his brother was seated in and recognized Anthea's writings.

"What, she forgot there's email now?" he asked as he tossed the paper down and headed to the front door when he heard a chair moving that made him quickly look back. He found Mycroft, who was wearing a dark robe over his white polo garment and trousers, on his feet and clinging on his wooden stick for support.

Sherlock was about to ask him if he was fine but found Mycroft glaring at him with an eyebrow up.

Sherlock asked anyway— "Do you need help?" he already stood sideways in case his brother falls over. It already happened a couple of times before so there was no point denying a helping hand.

"It's fine." The older Holmes stepped his weak legs but his eyes were entirely opposite. "And you forget— _you never gave me back my phone so how could she contact me?"_ he walked pass his brother who allowed him to enter their house first.

"That's exactly the point—she's not supposed to." Sherlock followed him suit and the brothers found themselves in the comfort of the sitting room. "What in the term 'sick leave' don't they understand? Or is it 'death leave' I'm supposed to file? I thought I made it clear to them you're in no shape to govern _anything, not even yourself._ "

 _"Oh, please."_ Mycroft rolled his eyes as he slowly sat down the sofa near the fireside. "Do you really think I needed mobility to head the government? All it takes are phone calls, brothermine—and that's not where I was pointing at— _what is this bed ridden thing I'm reading from this letter? And why am I still coughing blood? The last time that happened I choked on tea because you told me the most ridiculous conclusion about Ms. Hooper—and it's not even blood. And why am I collapsing—_ Sherlock!"

"They needed to know what's happening." He eyed the man across him as he laid the content of his bag on the table.

"And so do you. The reason they had to mail this letter is because they needed an advice about an upcoming summit to Switzerland two months from now. The Prime Minister has been invited and so was some of our delegates but Harry needed me there too so think I shall need to go there."

"But you're dead."

"I can't be any deader. _What are you doing?"_

The younger brother had dropped himself on the opposite chair calmly and had put the Operation— _a battery-operated game—_ on the table in between them with a smile plastered on his face.

"Stop concerning yourself over them, Mycroft and relax. _Let's play."_

"Says the person who would always bother me just to invite me to weddings and baptisms because he can't afford talking to the nonsensical guests." Mycroft took the tweezers from the open board game anyway. He took one good look at the operation table before he began operating but it hadn't been a second long before the first buzzing sound came.

Both the brothers looked at the tweezers and saw it shook— _Mycroft's hand was shaking._

"PTSD, don't you think?" the older Holmes muttered as Sherlock hastened to remove the operating table and gave his older brother an apologetic look. "Or do you think I miss my umbrella?"

"That's enough receiving of letters for you." Sherlock snatched the paper on the table too and crumpled it before throwing it away. Then he looked pointedly at his brother's shaking hand but Mycroft only raised it to eyes' length to observe it. The younger Holmes gritted his teeth.

"Instead of worrying about them—why not worry about yourself?"

"Why should I? _You_ are already there aren't you?"

Sherlock stared as Mycroft chuckled and placed his hand on his side again.

"Apparently, you're as bad as me when you worry, brother dear. Actually— _far worst._ Anyway, I won't be of use to anyone for another three days, I imagine. After that I will need all my contact information, Sherlock and nothing you will say can stop me—"

"Because you're usually correct with estimations—"

"Correct— plus the fact that it's my last calculated guess of the British Government standing on its own without me. A few more days after that and the whole city will crumble. That's why _I have to return_ even if I have to crawl there."

"You don't crawl."

" _No._ I fly." Mycroft leaned back at the chair with a smirk on his face Sherlock somehow enjoyed seeing. This was the Mycroft he was customary off. Not that pale, sickly brother he had been fretting for his dear life weeks ago; back then, Sherlock really thought he would lose his brother for good. But Mycroft was not meant to succumb to _death_ yet... and Sherlock will always see it won't be so.

"You can't return in flesh there though. Again, you're supposed to play dead." He pointed out but his older brother waved the argument away an eyebrow up in heaven.

"But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? They don't need to know of my existence. _No one has to, that has always been the code of my job._ In reality, I knew there will be some benefit of my name getting buried under the pile of obituaries. I am not meant to be known, my dear brother. This whole fiasco of my name getting publicity... _I knew somehow I needed to kill it._ Who _knew_ it could have end this way?" he smirked again that made the detective suspicious.

" _You knew!_ You've been planning to kill your name all along didn't you?"

"What gave you that idea?" the meaningful smile Mycroft gave him was enough for Sherlock to believe if he hadn't decided to take his brother's name to the grave, then Mycroft himself would have done it. And it was his brother's death on him over and over again because—as he reminded himself— _a lot of people do want his brother dead._ And it's not only because of his position. It was because of _what he knows. What they know as the Holmes brothers._

If Mycroft were to pursue his career even after everything, Sherlock was sure this won't be the last time he will be seeing his brother in the brink of death. Damn, his brother was asking for it like how he— _Sherlock—_ would actually try and look for his fix. Mycroft also needed his at the expense of his life.

What kind of silly brothers they both were.

Sherlock contemplated this silently as he too, leaned back on his chair to survey his brother as a whole.

From the beginning that has been his brother's role: to worm his way into the shadow and blend in naturally in the dark while the innocents bathed in the sunlight— _such bliss!_ The darkness which is the _British Government Head shouldered by one man._ If given the chance to come out of the lights Mycroft would— _only to snatch people from it and dragged them right into the shadow where they disappear forever, if necessary._

"You're an idiot brother." Sherlock told Mycroft who arched an eyebrow to a dangerous limit.

" _I beg your pardon?"_

"I got your back, Mycroft _. Always."_

Mycroft, the Lord of Secrecy. And him Sherlock, his _sentry._

That sounded just about right.

* * *

_**-Sentry-** _

* * *

_**To all readers- guests- :3 couldn't thank you enough again!** _

_A/N: Might be moving to another project concerning the summit but that should be a one shot or something ;)_

_**Thank you once again for reading even until the wrap! :)** _


End file.
